


Follow the Water

by xanthippe74



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animals, Brief mention of alcoholic parent, British Legends, Camping, Cooking, Friendship, Gardens & Gardening, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hiking, Language of Flowers, M/M, Magical Creatures, Nature, Off-screen animal bite, Pining, Romance, bisexual awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24524620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xanthippe74/pseuds/xanthippe74
Summary: Harry Potter’s life isfine. Maybe a little dull and predictable, but he shouldn’t complain about that, right? When he unexpectedly finds himself at Luna’s house one afternoon, Harry gets invited to join the secret wonderland that she’s creating with a surprising group of friends. Maybe a summer outdoors is just what a former hero needs to bring some zest back into his life.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 149
Kudos: 421
Collections: HD Wireless 2020





	1. Primrose (for new beginnings)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song, [“Follow the Water”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFVv_TGs1yc) by Calexico/Iron & Wine.
> 
> As soon as I heard the lines, “You saw my scars and called them skin” and “Every saviour needs someone to save,” I knew this song would spark an idea for a Drarry story. The Wireless Fest was the perfect opportunity to write it. I drew inspiration from both the lyrics and the gentle, warm tone of the song, and I hope I’ve managed to capture the summer-day-with-friends feels it gives me.
> 
> Thanks to [MalenkayaCherepakha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalenkayaCherepakha) and [AhaMarimbas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhaMarimbas) for their assistance getting this all polished up and ready to post, and much gratitude to the fabulous mods for all their work putting on the fest!

Somewhere between closing the front door of the Burrow, shutting out the clamour of another Sunday roast, and opening the creaky garden gate, Harry realises that he doesn’t want to go home just yet.

It’s a beautiful April day. He tilts his head back and watches the towering clouds drift by, some cottony white, others woolly grey. The air smells divine — sweet apple blossoms and freshly-cut grass, along with the sharper scents of the damp soil of the lane and woodsmoke from the Burrow chimneys.

Normally, Harry would Apparate home and nap through the worst discomforts of the enormous meal he just ate. And while the idea of stretching out on his well-worn sofa with a Quidditch match playing softly on the wireless is tempting, the prospect of being cooped up in his flat is not. The place is a bit uninviting, if he’s honest with himself. That he only has himself to blame for the bare, white walls and sparsely-furnished rooms makes the thought of returning there even less appealing.

A few deep inhalations of spring air decide the matter for Harry. A stroll along the narrow lanes around Ottery St. Catchpole it is.

He sets out in the direction that takes him away from the village and towards the wilder part of the valley, where Ron once mentioned there’s a river that twists its way down from the moorland to the west. Harry’s never ventured beyond the pasture where they play pick-up Quidditch, but he reckons he can always find a quiet spot from which to Apparate if he gets lost. 

Harry walks at what he believes is a reasonable pace for someone whose stomach is protesting any kind of movement at all. _A bloke who sits at a desk all day probably shouldn’t indulge in second slices of cake,_ he thinks, running his hand over his abdomen. The occasional jaunt on a broom and a bit of light housekeeping certainly aren’t enough to compensate for those kinds of habits. He picks up his pace, judging there to be about two hours of daylight left.

The lane is lined with chest-high hedgerows alive with new, bright leaves and birdsong. It winds between pastures and meadows, descending gently toward a small forest. There’s no sign of the river until Harry turns down a smaller lane that leads into the trees to the water’s edge. From there, it follows the course of the river, sometimes hugging its edge and other times drifting a few dozen yards away.

Harry hasn’t seen a soul since he left the Burrow, yet the sounds of the forest make it impossible to feel alone. Squirrels bound through the dried leaves still left from the autumn; the water gurgles as it slides over the wide, rocky riverbed; birds call to each other overhead. It’s both soothing and delightful to Harry’s senses. He pauses on a small stone bridge to catch his breath and watches the stream below him flow into the river in a joyous, swirling reunion.

Just when he thinks this little adventure can’t get any better, Harry turns and spots a path—a narrow, crooked stripe of leaf litter cutting through the new undergrowth— that runs up the hill beside the stream. There’s something _magical_ about it (for lack of a better word), something that calls to mind the neglected books from Dudley’s second bedroom that Harry used to smuggle into his cupboard. Narnia and Middle Earth and Sherwood. His post-meal stupor forgotten, he starts up the path, feeling like he’s entering another world.

It’s steeper than the lane, with puddles and fallen branches that Harry has to jump over or detour around. Before long, he’s winded and sweating beneath his woollen jumper. He stops and perches carefully on a mossy boulder to dip his fingers into the icy stream. Up ahead, Harry sees a glimpse of a grassy slope and the open sky above it. He stands up with a groan, hoping for a view at the top that’s worth his sore calf muscles.

Halfway up the slope, Harry realises where he is. The meadow is unfamiliar, but the low, stone house at the top of the hill isn’t. He laughs at himself for imagining he’d found his way to Middle Earth when, in fact, he’d just found Luna.

Seeing smoke rising from the chimney, Harry decides that dropping by to say hello is the only polite thing to do. And he certainly wouldn’t say no to a glass of water, if he’s offered one.

There’s a man with dark hair and broad shoulders digging in the vegetable garden near the house. His back is turned and the rhythm of his spade sliding into the soil doesn’t falter when Harry walks past him and slips through the gate into the area in front of the house enclosed by a low wall.

Xeno and Luna rebuilt their home using the stones from the old one, opting for a rambling, one-storey cottage instead of another tower. The brightly-painted doors and shutters are all Luna, while the protective sigils and runes carved into the stone walkway are Xeno’s work. There’s a Dirigible Plum bush in full bloom beside the door.

Luna answers Harry’s knock with a wide smile. “Hello, Harry. You picked a perfect day to stop by. I made a pie for tea.”

She looks well, Harry thinks as he steps into the dim kitchen. She wears her hair shorter now, just below her shoulders in dark blond waves, but she still favours flowing, patterned skirts and dangling earrings. The cold, flagstone floor doesn’t deter her from going barefoot.

Harry pauses after pulling the door closed behind him. “Er, I should take off my trainers. They’re pretty wet. I walked up from the Burrow,” he explains, when Luna tilts her head at him.

“All that way? The weather _is_ lovely today,” Luna replies, watching Harry slip out of his shoes. “I didn’t know you knew the way. Ginny always uses the Floo.”

“Well, it was rather by accident, you see. I decided to take a stroll and I found the path along the stream, so I just followed it to the top to where your meadow starts. And then I saw your house.”

Luna looks delighted by Harry’s story. “That doesn’t sound like an accident at all. Perhaps you were led here by fate.”

Harry laughs. “By indigestion, more like. Teddy’s birthday party was yesterday, then Molly’s Sunday roast today. I felt like I was going to—”

The words die in Harry’s mouth when he glances away from Luna and belatedly notices that she’s not alone. Two other visitors are seated at the table in the shadowy kitchen, perfectly motionless and silent since Harry stepped into the room. He stares at them, utterly gobsmacked to find himself face-to-face with Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy. There are mugs of tea and half-finished plates of pie in front of them. Harry suddenly has the feeling that he’s in the middle of a strange, jumbled-up dream.

“I’m sorry, Luna. I didn’t realise you had company,” Harry says when he finds his voice again. “I should come back another time.”

“Of course not,” Luna says, taking Harry’s arm and guiding him to the table. “We don’t mind at all, do we?”

Parkinson and Malfoy look up at Luna blankly for a moment, then Parkinson shrugs. “We’d likely be here if you came on a different weekend, anyway. No point in putting it off.”

Harry gives into Luna’s nudging and sinks into a chair. He looks up at her in surprise.

“Oh, yes. Draco, Pansy, Greg, and I are quite inseparable these days,” Luna says with a beatific smile for the two across the table.

Pansy looks at Harry defiantly, while Malfoy stares into his mug with a stony expression.

“Greg… Goyle?” Harry asks faintly. It’s hard enough to imagine Luna hanging around with Malfoy, much less his hulking, glowering shadow. “Ah, that’s who I saw working outside.”

“Yes, Greg is a very talented gardener. Dad and I have a wonderful supply of flowers and vegetables now, thanks to his help. Would you like some pie, by the way? It’s rhubarb, chive, and banana custard.”

Harry’s stomach lurches unpleasantly. “I really couldn’t eat another bite today, honestly. You know how Molly is. A glass of water would be great, though.”

Luna rises to fill a glass for him. Harry looks around the kitchen so that he doesn’t have to meet Parkinson’s gorgon glare. It’s cozy and cluttered, but in a way that’s very different from the busy kitchen at the Burrow. Wicker baskets and cages are piled in a corner; strings of dried flowers and fruit of some kind—possibly the plums again—adorn the heavy ceiling beams; and a row of Fanged Geraniums sits on the window ledge above the sink.

“Neville gave me those,” Luna says as she hands the glass of water to Harry. “The ground-up fangs are a lovely addition to jams. How’s your job going in Magical Games and Sports?”

“Oh, fine. It’s mostly just… filing and opening post,” Harry winces. He darts a glance across the table and regrets it immediately when he sees Parkinson’s mouth twist into a faint smirk. “Got to meet Alan Kettering last week,” he adds, attempting more enthusiasm. “The Keeper for the Wasps.”

“Oh, how nice,” Luna says, resting her chin in her palm. “I haven’t seen a Quidditch match since school. They’re rather exciting.”

“Mmm,” Harry agrees, sipping his water and eyeing the dish of Floo Powder on the fireplace mantel. He’s ready to escape this awkward gathering and have that kip on his sofa now, as soon as he can take his leave without seeming rude.

“You should come back next Saturday,” Luna says, as if she’s been contemplating the idea since Harry’s arrival and just made the decision. “We usually gather on Saturdays, but Pansy had a social commitment yesterday.”

Harry sees Parkinson looking at Luna with imploring eyes. Malfoy crosses his arms over his chest, not even attempting to hide his disgust. Harry’s clearly not wanted here.

“I’m not sure if I… I usually spend Saturday mornings with Teddy,” he says lamely, wishing for the first time that he could bring himself to lie to Luna so that he could tell her that he’s busy all day.

“Wonderful. Come over when you’re done. We’ll have lunch outside, if the weather’s fine. You can use the Floo, unless you’d rather walk again. The primroses are in bloom along the stream.”

“Would be a bit of a hike from Andromeda’s house in Cornwall,” Harry mumbles, causing Luna to break into a startling peal of laughter. Harry smiles at her, even though he’s still mentally scrambling for an excuse to turn down the invitation. He knows it’s no good; denying Luna anything is next to impossible.

Harry stands and places his empty glass in the sink. He tries not to flinch when the Fanged Geraniums twitch in their pots. “I’ll be off then,” he says. “Thanks for the water.”

“We’ll see you next weekend,” Luna replies, standing on tiptoe to kiss Harry on the cheek. “I really do believe that fate brought you to us, Harry. Best wear some wellies next time, though.”

“Right,” Harry says, giving Parkinson and Malfoy what he hopes is an apologetic look. He retrieves his trainers and carries them to the fireplace. “See you then.”

After a nauseating spin through the Floo Network, Harry stumbles into his lounge and collapses on the sofa. He spends the rest of the evening there, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the everloving fuck he’s got himself into.

* * *

There’s no reply to his knock when Harry Apparates to Luna’s front garden the following Saturday. The second, louder knock goes unanswered as well, and he’s beginning to wonder if the Slytherins are snickering at him somewhere inside the house. Using the Floo might have been a better choice, but Harry didn’t relish the idea of crashing into the kitchen, dizzy from the journey and clumsy in his wellies, in front of an audience.

Just as he’s about to knock again, Luna’s hare Patronus comes bounding into the garden to inform him that they’re gathered on the other side of the house. Harry heads through the gate and hears Luna’s distinctive laughter before he turns the last corner. Goyle is working in the vegetable garden again, while the other three are clustered further away from the house in a small clearing surrounded on three sides by trees.

Goyle looks up but doesn’t acknowledge Harry as he strides through the wet grass towards the clearing. Luna waves as he approaches, then returns to her conversation with Malfoy and Parkinson. It seems to involve lots of pointing and pacing off distances.

“If we put it here,” Parkinson says, “it will be more sheltered from the wind and we won’t need as many protective charms. Not that I doubt your charmwork, dear.” She loops her arm through Luna’s with a fond smile.

“We’ll just have to build a platform, since the ground gets softer there when it rains. Greg can do that, I’m sure,” Luna replies. “Hello, Harry. We’re very glad you came.”

Given that Parkinson looks like she’s sucking a lemon and Malfoy immediately turns away to walk over to Goyle, Harry doubts that Luna’s sentiment is shared even a little.

“What are you planning?” he asks.

“We’re going to build a camp,” Luna explains. “We’ll have a tent here, a table and chairs for meals on the other side, and a place for a fire in the middle. We want to be able to spend as much time outside as we can, even when it’s raining.”

“That sounds really nice,” Harry says sincerely. The Lovegoods have a pretty spot here on their hilltop. He can see the appeal of being out in the fresh air, surrounded by the rustling sounds of the wind in the grass and trees, even on an overcast day like today.

“We made a few benches last year for bonfires, but we want to build a proper camp so we have our own home base for adventures. Not that Dad minds us in the house. It’s just a bit cramped in there.”

“What kind of adventures?” Harry asks. The Slytherins don’t seem like the type for larks in the great outdoors, whereas Luna might be up for… well, just about anything. Harry has a difficult time fathoming how Luna’s mind works for mundane activities. Merlin only knows what she would come up with for _adventure._

“Picnics, hikes, messing about with cooking over the fire, that sort of thing,” Parkinson says. 

She’s still standing close to Luna in a way that strikes Harry as protective, and she has her chin tilted up as if she anticipates that Harry will mock the idea.

“That sounds fun,” he says, meeting Parkinson’s eyes. She looks just the same as she did at Hogwarts, with her pin-straight bob and stylish clothes. Her crimson lipstick matches her boots, Harry notices. She and Luna make for an unlikely friendship, that’s for certain.

“I’m sure you’re going to love it, Harry,” Luna smiles. “You’ve been in the city too much and it’s affecting your aura. Not to mention those dreadful artificial sunlight charms at the Ministry.”

“I am?” Harry asks in confusion. “Going to enjoy it?”

“Has your desk job managed to kill your Gryffindor derring-do, Potter?” Parkinson grins, sharklike. “Not that I care, of course, but Luna seems to have it in her lovely head that we need to include you in our little scheme, and none of us has the heart to disappoint her.”

“Yeah, I know how that is,” Harry mumbles. “Luna, you really don’t have to. I mean, it’s sweet of you to ask, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. I’m pretty sure Malfoy would rather tie me to a board and float me back down the river than spend five minutes with me.”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Luna laughs. “He’ll come around. And don’t be surprised if Greg is quiet at first. He’s just not the chatty type, but you’ll find he’s very kind once you get to know him.”

Harry silently wonders how someone who used to pick up first-year students by the back of their uniforms and threaten to toss them over the staircase bannisters for fun could turn out to be _kind_. But he’s willing to keep an open mind, not only for Luna’s sake, but for post-war reconciliation. He’d be a hypocrite if he refused the invitation solely on the basis of former rivalries.

“So Potter, I’m rather curious to know how you ended up shuffling parchment instead of saving us all from the forces of darkness again as an Auror,” Parkinson asks, her red lips curling sardonically. “The _Prophet_ insinuated that you thought the training program was rubbish.”

“No, that wasn’t it at all!” Harry glances at Luna and wills himself not to take Parkinson’s bait. “The Auror program is fine. It’s just that… well, I’m not very good at trusting the judgement of authority figures. And I have a tendency to rush headlong into situations without thinking, it turns out. The instructors got a bit exasperated with me,” Harry explains, grinning sheepishly. “I just decided it wasn’t right for me, in the end.”

“So you decided to lend your many talents to Magical Games and Sports? Is that really the best the Ministry could offer you, our _golden boy_?”

“They _offered_ plenty of other positions,” Harry says, dropping his easy smile but keeping a level voice. He detests when people assume that he’s leveraging his deeds during the war for favours or special treatment. “I didn’t want one that required qualifications that I don’t have, like NEWTs. And there’s nothing wrong with _shuffling parchment_ if it’s a job that needs doing.”

“Of course not,” Parkinson smiles with a careless shrug. “I’m merely a socialite myself, unemployed and decorative. Who am I to judge?”

“Pansy, you’re more than that! You’re so very talented,” Luna protests, then turns back to Harry. “She’s a brilliant writer and I’m certain she’ll be a famous one someday.”

Parkinson looks genuinely touched. The wry expression that she wore when addressing Harry falls away and she unwinds her arm from Luna’s to wrap it around her waist instead. “Thank you. You’re too sweet, really. Who knows if my little scribblings will ever see the light of day? Mother is determined to marry me off and Father has about as much appreciation for literature as a walnut, so don’t wager a single Knut on my publishing a novel just yet.”

“I know you’ll do it,” Luna says serenely. “Let’s go see what Draco and Greg are doing, shall we? It’s almost time for lunch.”

Harry follows the girls towards the garden, where Goyle is smoothing over a freshly-turned planting bed with the back of a rake and Malfoy is seated on a bench with a notebook and quill. The air smells of compost-rich soil, and it takes Harry right back to Petunia’s flower beds and the sun burning the back of his neck. He wonders if she hires someone to do that task now that her free labour is gone.

“Let’s see it, Draco,” Luna says, sitting beside him on the bench.

Parkinson leans down to look with one hand on each of her friends’ shoulders. “You need that Muggle paper that’s marked off in a grid, darling,” she remarks. “I’m not sure the scale is quite right.”

“You’re welcome to go back over there and use a measuring spell, if you want it to be more precise,” Malfoy answers sharply. “It’s just a sketch to help us remember what we decided when it’s time to start building.”

Harry realises that this is the first time he’s heard Malfoy speak, either today or on his previous visit. It’s the same voice he remembers from school, posh and precise. He’s dressed casually, but Harry can practically smell the starchy scent of ironing charms when he looks at Malfoy’s crisp, button-down shirt.

As if he senses Harry watching, Malfoy looks over his shoulder with a frown. “Shall we start preparing lunch, Luna?” he asks, without breaking eye contact with Harry.

“That’s a good idea,” Luna says. “It’s going to start raining soon anyway.”

“How long?” Goyle asks without looking up from his raking.

“Less than an hour, I think,” Luna answers, peering up at the clouds. “Maybe Harry could help you until then.”

“Um, okay. If he doesn’t mind.” Harry looks at Goyle, but all he gets is a grunt and a shrug that he can’t interpret.

“That’s settled, then. I’ll send down my Patronus for you boys when lunch is ready.”

Harry watches Luna, Parkinson, and Malfoy as they head towards the house, their voices carrying back to him on the wind. Malfoy’s sounds sharp and bitter, but he falls silent when Luna pats him on the shoulder and replies in her soothing tone.

“So, what needs to be done?” Harry asks. “Do you want me to start turning another bed or spread the manure on that one?”

Goyle straightens his back and finally gives Harry his full attention. He looks Harry up and down, as if he’s deciding if such a scrawny person can be of any use. Or maybe he’s thinking about sticking Harry head-first into the soil like a seedling. It’s hard to tell.

“Ever work in a garden before?” Goyle asks.

“Yeah, I used to do my aunt’s flower beds for her. Spreading manure, weeding, planting. Things like that.”

Goyle nods toward a wheelbarrow of compost and a shovel. “Spread all of that on the bed behind you, then work it in with the pitchfork.”

Harry moves the wheelbarrow where he needs it and gets to work. If it was almost anyone else working beside him, he’d try to strike up a conversation. It’s difficult to imagine Goyle having a conversation with anyone, to be honest. Harry gives up on the idea and tries to concentrate on his task, glancing up at the clouds every few minutes. They’re a uniform, steely grey, just as they’ve been since he arrived, and he’s mystified by Luna’s very specific prediction of rain.

Just as he finishes the last corner of the bed, Luna’s Patronus summons them to lunch. Harry follows Goyle first to a garden shed, where they use their wands to clean off the tools, then to the house.

Harry feels confident enough about his performance in the garden to venture a question.

“So, have you been gardening for a long time?”

Goyle glances down at Harry before replying. “Since the war. I got a job with a bloke who needed an assistant. It’s mostly landscaping and formal gardens, but he loaned me books about growing vegetables. It helps me and my mum out to grow some of our own food.”

Harry’s not sure how to reply. He knows the elder Goyle is serving a long sentence in Azkaban. The burden of the heavy reparations that were also a part of his sentence have fallen on his wife and son, it would appear. It’s likely the same for many of the families of the Death Eaters.

The smell of food greets them when they kick off their boots by the door. Parkinson is slicing bread while Luna fills bowls with soup from an enormous pot on the old-fashioned range. Malfoy is tucked into an armchair in the corner, back at work on his sketch. It’s going to be a tight squeeze for five people around the table, Harry thinks. He crosses to the sink to wash his hands after Goyle’s done and tries not to think about having to eat while sandwiched between Slytherins.

Thankfully, he ends up between Luna and Parkinson, from whom he accepts a slice of bread that Harry’s almost certain came from the fancy bakery in Diagon Alley. He often picks up a baguette or loaf of ciabatta there on his way to have dinner at Ron and Hermione’s flat, and he always takes his time making his selection so that he can enjoy the wonderful smell of warm bread as long as possible.

“Well,” Luna says, when everyone’s seated, “it looks like we’ll have to have some games in here after lunch. I hope we finished everything we wanted to do outside this morning.”

It’s only then that Harry notices the patter of raindrops against the kitchen window. He smiles at Luna in wonder and starts on his soup. Remembering the unusual combination of ingredients in the pie last weekend, he decides against asking what’s in it. He’s probably better off not knowing.

The broth looks rich and tomato-based, but the first sip from his spoon has Harry reaching hastily for his water glass. He has no idea what the flavour is, but it’s sour and spicy at the same time, with a surprising aftertaste that could possibly be cinnamon. He continues eating with determination, finding that he can manage it if he gets a higher ratio of vegetables to broth.

“The soup is delicious, Luna,” Parkinson says. She meets Harry’s eyes after she speaks.

“Yes, it is,” he chimes in. “Very… flavourful.”

Parkinson makes what Harry thinks is a hum of approval. He looks across the table to see Goyle and Malfoy soldiering through their bowls with a focus worthy of NEWT-level Potions. Malfoy is dabbing his eyes with his napkin between bites, while Goyle’s cheeks are even redder than when he was working outside. Harry feels a strange solidarity with them as fellow devotees of Luna. It’s yet another testament to her gentle, wise spirit that she can bring together such an unlikely group of people.

“How is the garden coming?” Luna asks. “Did you manage to get some work done with the extra pair of hands?”

Harry looks at the palm of his left hand and winces at the places that are rubbed raw from the wooden handles. Goyle notices what he’s doing.

“Bring gloves next time,” he says to Harry. When the others look at him in surprise, he adds, “He knows what he’s doing.”

An unexpected surge of pride warms the inside of Harry’s chest. He catches Malfoy watching him with raised eyebrows and returns the look confidently. Now that he seems to have won the approval—albeit muted—of two out of three Slytherins, he doesn’t feel quite so on the back foot. Harry works his way to the bottom of his bowl of soup, believing that he’s ready for anything they can throw his way.

“So, Potter,” Parkinson says once the table is cleared and the dishes are washing themselves in the sink, “how are you at anagrams?”

Well, almost anything.


	2. Bluebells (for humility and gratitude)

Harry heads straight for the camp clearing this time when he arrives at Luna’s, a pair of new work gloves and a tin of homemade biscuits tucked under his arm. He’s the last to arrive again and the day’s work seems already well underway, making him wonder if the Slytherins are coming over after breakfast, despite Luna’s vague description of their gathering time as “around midday.” It’s an unpleasant reminder that he’s still something of an interloper at this weekly gathering, but that’s vastly outweighed by the anticipation of spending another day outside.

Malfoy and Goyle are working on the wooden platform for the tent, while Luna and Parkinson are sitting on a blanket with piles of folded fabric and coiled rope around them. They greet Harry with smiles and Luna graciously accepts the tin of biscuits. It finds an immediate use as a paperweight for the pieces of parchment with the sketches of the camp.

“Would you like to help Greg again?” Luna asks. “Draco’s not overly fond of carpentry, since Greg won’t let him use magic.”

Only then does it occur to Harry that they didn’t use spells in the garden last weekend, either. Having learnt to do that type of work the Muggle way, he didn’t even question it.

“Why doesn’t he like to use magic?” Harry asks. “It would probably be faster.”

“He uses magic for some parts, like cutting the wood,” Luna explains, “but he says it’s much more satisfying to do things with your hands, and more durable as well. He can probably explain it better, if you ask him.”

“Do go help him, Potter,” Parkinson says, rolling up the cuffs of her blouse in precise folds. “Luna and I are ready to start assembling the tent whenever the platform is done, but it won’t be ready until August at this rate. And Greg’s about to drop a hammer on Draco’s head, by the looks of it.”

Harry can’t suppress his smile at the possibility of witnessing that, but decides that getting the camp built is more important than Malfoy getting his comeuppance for being a whinging little git. He gives the girls a jaunty salute and heads for the tent site, again relishing the wind on his face. May has arrived with milder days, and the sun is warm on the top of Harry’s head when it breaks through the clouds.

“Reporting for carpentry duty,” Harry says cheerfully when he reaches the half-built platform. Goyle nods silently, but Malfoy scowls. Harry ignores him; he’s not going to let Malfoy be the fly in the ointment of what promises to be an enjoyable afternoon. He accepts the hammer from Malfoy with a cheeky grin, then turns to Goyle for instructions.

The framework is done and set on flat stones for stability. Goyle knows what he’s doing, it seems—not that Harry’s an expert, but he watched his share of home renovation shows on the telly as a kid. Aunt Petunia liked to cluck at the poor taste of the designers, the laziness of the workmen, and the expense of the projects.

A stack of planks lies on the grass beside the platform, ready to cover the framework. Goyle hands Harry a thick, canvas apron with pockets for nails—which Harry ties around his waist with extra enthusiasm because Malfoy refused to wear it—and they begin nailing the planks into place. It’s slow going for Harry at first, but with a few tips from Goyle on his swing, he manages a steady pace. The noise of the hammers makes conversation impossible. After a few blows to the fingers of his left hand, Harry decides it’s just as well that he doesn’t have any distractions.

When he takes a break to stretch his back and massage his right forearm, Harry sees that Malfoy is working on the far side of the clearing where Luna indicated a table would be. He has a pile of bare branches that he’s laying out, one by one, in a circular pattern. A piece of parchment, which must be his diagram, is levitating near his head for reference.

“What’s Malfoy making?” Harry asks Goyle when he’s reaching into his apron for more nails.

“An arbour to go over the table. Luna wants to have flowers growing on it,” Goyle replies.

“That’ll be pretty.”

Goyle shrugs, then gestures for Harry to get back to work. Harry rolls his eyes as he reaches for his hammer. To think that he could be loafing around his flat instead of having the surreal experience of being bossed around by one of Malfoy’s former goons.

Truth be told, he’s having the most fun he’s had in ages. Not that his life is completely devoid of fun. There are joyful Saturday mornings with three-year-old Teddy, raucous lunches at the Burrow, and the occasional dinner with Ron and Hermione when they can find the time. Harry’s not sure if it’s merely the novelty of the company or the wholesome activity, but his mind is abuzz with happiness as he carries another board to the platform.

A short time later, Luna and Parkinson disappear into the house, skirts whipping around their legs, to bring lunch outside. Harry’s stomach growls just thinking about it, even as he’s bracing himself for whatever culinary ambush Luna has in store for them. When the girls return, they shift the tent materials off the blanket to make room for everyone and distribute plates of sandwiches and crisps.

Merlin help them, they’re radish and rocket sandwiches, held together with a thick layer of softened, pungent cheese. Camembert, Harry speculates, but he’s too preoccupied with willing his throat to swallow the eye-watering concoction to ask.

After the sandwiches are gone, washed down with copious amounts of tea, Harry passes around his biscuits. He’s gratified to see that even Malfoy reaches into the tin for seconds.

“Molly’s recipe,” Harry says, when Luna compliments his baking. He doesn’t have many special occasions for which to bake fancy desserts, but he’s found a tin of chocolate chip or butterscotch biscuits is welcome just about anywhere. Having a new crowd to bake for gives Harry something else to look forward to on weekends.

“How much longer on that platform? It’s boring just waiting around and I need to get moving or I’ll fall asleep right here,” Parkinson says with a yawn.

“Late night?” Malfoy asks. “Being a high-society belle must be so taxing. What was it, an evening garden party? Debauched birthday soirée for some old codger?”

“Neither, sadly. Just some old friends of Mother and Father’s over to our house for drinks. I tried to beg off, but apparently they have two single sons who live on the Continent and Mummy smelled blood. If they’re half as dull as their parents, they’ll still be insufferable.”

“Well now you have us for the afternoon, and we’re not dull,” Luna consoles her.

“Certainly not. I have my doubts about Potter, though,” Parkinsons says, cocking her head to examine Harry.

He laughs and rolls his eyes at Parkinson, but something inside him withers at the observation. Harry’s been trying to push down the nagging feeling that he has _faded_ in the past couple of years. That he’s become as uninteresting as the dusty, drooping houseplant that’s languishing in his flat. Goyle interrupts Harry’s thoughts by rising from the blanket with surprising nimbleness.

“Another hour and it’ll be ready,” he says, catching Harry’s eye. “Then I can start getting the stones for the firepit.”

Harry scrambles up to follow him, brushing biscuit crumbs off his jeans and thanking Luna for the sandwiches. He swallows the burning belch that’s threatening to escape his stomach. _Merlin_ , he’s going to have to sneak off the Floo to get some antacid potion from home, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll smuggle in a vial next week. Along with a decent sandwich.

The thought sparks an idea in Harry’s mind, but he decides to consider it while he works rather than blurt it out. The last thing he wants to do is hurt Luna’s feelings.

As predicted, the platform is complete in an hour. Luna and Parkinson levitate their materials over and get to work with poles and thin rope. They ask Goyle to drill holes around the perimeter of the platform, then shoo him and Harry away. Whatever they have planned seems complex, colourful, and whimsical—a perfect reflection of Luna, in other words. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if there was both Arithmancy and a few esoteric theories straight from _The Quibbler_ in the tent’s design.

Harry follows Goyle to the garden to retrieve the wheelbarrow, then down the sloping meadow toward the stream. They’re searching for flat stones for the fire pit, Goyle tells him when they’re standing at the water’s edge. Each stone is inspected for cracks, then gets a Feather-light Charm if it passes muster. Harry’s impressed by how meticulous Goyle is in all his work, and he catches a glimpse of a smile when he says so.

“I’ve built enough things to know you end up doing the work twice if you don’t take the time to do it properly,” Goyle says.

When the wheelbarrow is full, Harry stays by the stream while Goyle takes the first load back to the camp. Harry finds a knee-high boulder for a seat and enjoys the burbling sound of the water and the cool air under the trees. His eyes keep scanning for smooth stones in spite of his beautiful surroundings, and he shakes his head at himself for wanting to impress Goyle by having some ready when he returns.

Harry has to admit that he does find Goyle’s skills and work ethic admirable. Not only that, but he chooses to use those skills to help his friends in a meaningful way. Luna’s description of Goyle as _kind_ is beginning to make sense, even though his interactions with his friends aren’t demonstrative or enthusiastic. Then again, Malfoy and Parkinson have enough dramatic flair for five people, so anything Goyle does would seem subdued in comparison.

Two more loads of stones are carted up the hill. Harry reluctantly leaves the stream when Goyle returns, wheelbarrow-less, to tell him they have enough. The framework of the tent is done, rising at the edge of the clearing in a pattern of gothic arches and elongated triangles. Its creators are sitting on the edge of the platform, windblown and smiling. Harry can hear Parkinson’s animated voice as he gets closer, relating a story to Luna. When they see Harry and Goyle, they join the gathering by the circle of bare ground where the fire pit will be.

“Do you need any help, Draco?” Luna asks.

“No, I think I can manage. Greg wants to get some planting done, but I can call him over if I need him,” Malfoy replies, nodding at his friend.

Harry thought that Goyle was going to build the fire pit, but he’s mistaken, apparently. His confusion must be obvious because Luna immediately turns to him to explain.

“Draco’s very skilled with stonework. He helped rebuild the house,” Luna says, dropping this surprising bit of information as casually as if she were mentioning his favourite food. Malfoy turns pink and strides away towards the shed, muttering something about mortar. “He doesn’t want people to know, for some reason,” Luna adds with a soft frown.

“He doesn’t want people to think he’s _up to something_ ,” Pansy explains, sliding her gaze over to Harry. “He’s worried that they’ll think he’s doing it to _rehabilitate his public image_ and not because he genuinely wanted to help.”

“I don’t think he’s up to anything!” Harry protests. It’s hard to imagine Malfoy concocting a scheme that required both manual labour and choking down Luna’s cooking. When he compares that to what Lucius would likely do in Draco’s place, Harry’s more certain than ever that Luna’s trust is not misplaced.

“He wrote to me after he heard about our house. He learnt a great deal about building while he was working on the Hogwarts repairs the summer after the battle, and he offered to help us. He was quite insistent on doing something for us. We finished it so much faster with his help, since I was only home from school on the weekends that year,” Luna says.

“Oh, Luna, I should have come and helped, too,” Harry says. “I mean, it’s really my fault that it was destroyed in the first place.”

“No, it wasn’t, Harry. You were just trying to get away. It was very clever of Hermione to think of casting a _Deprimo_. We love our new house and we were able to fix or replace everything inside, too.”

“Please tell me you don’t have another Erumpent horn, Luna,” Harry pleads.

“Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” she corrects him with a gentle pat on his arm.

Harry hears a scoff from behind him. Malfoy meets Harry’s eyes as he sets down the bucket of mortar, and Harry gets the impression that Malfoy has also fought and lost this battle with Luna. He doesn’t seem interested in coming to Harry’s aid now. Harry is left feeling a little irritated that Malfoy is still determined to ignore him, just when he’s starting to reevaluate his opinion of the man.

Goyle departs to plant his runner beans and potatoes. Harry is pressed into tent duty—specifically, holding down the fabric while Luna and Parkinson hastily fasten it to the framework. Even with three people and an abundance of Sticking Charms, there are a few times when Harry has to _Accio_ a swath of cloth that gets caught in the wind.

When Parkinson goes inside to make a pot of tea, Harry sits beside Luna and musters the courage to make the offer he’s been contemplating since lunch. She notices his hesitation and pats him on the knee.

“Everyone here seems to have a special talent for this kind of stuff but me,” Harry begins with a chuckle. His eyes unwittingly fall on Malfoy, who’s levitating stones with wand movements that remind Harry of an orchestra conductor leading his musicians through a slow, solemn piece. Harry is captivated by the grace of Malfoy’s casting and posture, and he momentarily loses track of what he was saying to Luna.

“You’ve been a great help to us, Harry. I didn’t even know you had experience gardening,” Luna says.

Harry turns his attention back to her. “Just a little. But I’m no expert, not enough to be in charge of that or any of the building projects. The only thing I’m really good at is cooking, so I was wondering… if you don’t mind, that is...”

Luna’s blue eyes watch Harry patiently as he founders. 

“I was wondering if you’d let me handle the lunches,” he blurts, deciding to get right to the point rather than dance around it and risk putting his foot in his mouth. “I’d love to do it. I don’t get to cook for people very often because my flat’s so small. And I can make vegetarian meals, no problem. Unless you enjoy doing it yourself, then—”

“I think that would be lovely, Harry, if you’d like to do it,” Luna says. “And I’m the only vegetarian here, so you’re welcome to include meat for yourself and the others if you like.”

Harry sags with relief. “I really would love to do it,” he repeats. “It’ll be my contribution to Camp Lovegood.”

“It doesn’t have a name yet, Harry,” Luna laughs. “Maybe we should think of one. Here comes Pansy with the tea. We’ll think of some ideas while we have it.”

She takes his arm and leads him to the blanket, and Harry’s heart swells like a sail billowing in the wind, full of gladness and gratitude.

* * *

Harry spends Friday evening packing up a variety of sandwich fillings—meats, cheeses, vegetables, and savoury spreads—and baking a cake for the camp’s inauguration the following day. Looking at the picnic hamper crammed with jars and waxed paper-wrapped bundles, he worries for a moment that he packed too much for five people. But then he reasons that Goyle’s appetite is probably proportionate to his size, and Harry can always use the leftovers for his lunches. He casts a chilling charm over the entire hamper and jots a list of the breads and rolls he’ll pick up from the bakery in the morning.

The day is overcast but bright when Harry arrives in the clearing. Someone cast a mowing charm on the grass of the clearing, which makes their camp look smart and tidy, like a kid on the first day of the school term. The white, yellow, and pale blue linen fabric that Luna chose for the tent twitches in the light breeze. She and Parkinson charmed the entire structure to repel wind, rain, lightning, and Glumbumbles.

The dining table and chairs across the clearing were contributed by Goyle. He salvaged them from one of the homes where he gardens (whose owners were redecorating), then painted them white. The table sits under a dome of willow boughs that Malfoy finished weaving last weekend just as the sun sank behind the trees. In the intervening days since their last gathering, some kind of vines were planted around the base. They’ve already climbed more than a foot up the arbour, aided by growth-accelerating charms or potions, Harry assumes.

Harry lugs the picnic hamper over to the table, where Parkinson and Malfoy are already seated. Luna and Goyle are nowhere in sight.

“What’s this?” Parkinson asks with narrowed eyes when Harry sets the hamper on an empty chair.

“Luna said I could bring lunch this week,” Harry explains, sensing that it’s important to preface his answer with Luna’s approval. He knows by now that the Slytherins would never tolerate any behaviour that would upset her, even if it’s well-intentioned. “I don’t have any talent for building or gardening, but I do like to cook for people. So I offered to be camp caterer—to pull my weight, so to speak.”

Harry begins to set out the food, unshrinking plates and platters and filling the latter with the sandwich fillings and breads that are still warm from the bakery. He glances up and catches Malfoy watching with wide eyes.

“I made a cake for tea later, too,” Harry says offhandedly. “Chocolate.”

“Potter,” Malfoy says in a low voice. “I never thought I’d say this—actually, I once believed I’d rather die than say this—but you are truly my hero.”

Harry laughs, both pleased and astonished. Parkinson gives Malfoy a disapproving look, but she doesn’t disagree with the sentiment of his statement.

While the other two resume chatting about their weeks, Harry finishes arranging the food. He’s warmed by their approval of his contribution, as well as their silent consensus that nothing will be said aloud on the subject of Luna’s cooking, even outside of her presence.

The last two members of the party arrive a few minutes later with a pitcher of lemonade and bottles of Butterbeer. Harry accepts a quick hug from Luna and a slap on the back from Goyle that almost pitches him into the table. When he turns to tell Goyle to mind his own strength, Harry is shocked to see him wearing an enormous grin—presumably at the sight of the food and not his gardening assistant.

“Did you plant those?” Harry asks, pointing to the green stalks clinging to the base of the arbour.

Goyle nods. “Honeysuckle. It grows fast and smells nice when it blooms. We thought about ivy, but it would get too dark inside once it grows over the top.”

“We’re still going to put up fairy lights at some point,” Luna adds. She looks around at her friends and clasps her hands in front of her chest. “Well, I’m so happy to officially open our camp with you all, my dear friends. We’ve been looking forward to it for so long.”

Harry’s been looking forward to it, too, even though he only joined in recently. He practically counted down the hours all week, his focus drifting away from the memos and files on his desk every time he thought about the camp. Saturday is finally here, and he’s not alone in his excitement, judging by the others’ expressions.

Luna’s wearing a wide, blue skirt with a sunflower print, while Parkinson has opted for a white dress that looks like a men’s button-down shirt, belted at the waist. Harry feels underdressed until he notices that Malfoy and Goyle are wearing their usual attire, complete with mud-spattered wellies (in the case of the latter).

Their first lunch at the completed camp is a merry one, with stories and friendly teasing that isn’t at all different from the gatherings that Harry has with his friends. The Slytherins have grown comfortable enough to speak freely around him, even Malfoy, though he sometimes darts a worried glance at Harry after he speaks. Harry makes sure to be as friendly with him as he is with the others, grateful that he’s managed to break the ice at last.

After the (rather meagre) leftovers are packed back into the hamper, they brush the crumbs off the table, push back their chairs to stretch their legs out, and get to work on making plans for the summer. Parkinson puts herself in charge of writing the list, which she declares is only fair since she had the foresight to bring parchment and a self-inking quill. When she’s ready to begin, she raps on the table to get everyone’s attention.

“Let’s start by calling out everything we can think of, then we’ll go back through the list later to decide what’s feasible and which things we want to do the most. You start, Luna.”

“I’d like to go horse riding. There are Muggle stables that take groups out on the bridleways, which I think would be wonderful. Though not as exciting as riding on a Thestral, hmm, Harry?” Luna says, smiling across the table at him.

“I’m sure it would still be fun,” Harry replies sincerely. The others look skeptical, but they don’t interrupt the list-making with objections.

“Greg?” Parkinson says, pointing the white plume of her quill in his direction.

“You know me. I’m happy to do what everyone else chooses. M’not picky.”

“Isn’t there something you want to try?” Luna prompts.

“Picnics?” Goyle says. “I mean in the woods or someplace besides here.”

“There are many nice places around here for that, and we can always Apparate further if we want a change of scenery,” Luna says. “And I’m sure we’ll have lovely things to eat, thanks to Harry.”

Harry nods, then catches Goyle giving him a wink. He almost chokes on his Butterbeer and has to cough into his napkin for a moment before he’s able to take his turn.

“I’m not sure, either. I’m pretty much open to anything, too.” Parkinson taps her quill against the parchment and gives him a pointed look. “Fine,” he relents. “Exploring? I liked following the paths and the lanes that first day I walked up here. So, hiking, I guess.”

“Hiking and exploring,” Parkinson repeats, jotting it down. “Draco?”

“One of the stone circles up on the moor. I’d like to go on a clear night, but I know that would be difficult since the Apparition Point is down in the closest Muggle village. A daytime trip, if we can’t manage it in the dark.”

“Oh, I haven’t been there in a long time,” Luna says enthusiastically. “My parents took me when I was younger. It was quite breathtaking.”

“All right,” Parkinson says. “I’d like to have some games and frivolity. Treasure hunts, lawn games, and so on. The kind of things they do in Edwardian novels about genteel young people making merry and having summer romances.”

“If you’re looking for a summer romance, I’m afraid you’re unlikely to find it with any of us,” Malfoy says drily.

Parkinson ignores him and finishes writing her items on the parchment. “Back around to you, darling,” she says to Luna.

“Hmm, we talked about camping out in tents one night, do you remember?”

“ _You_ talked about it,” Malfoy mutters. “I think the rest of us were not so keen on sleeping on the ground like _animals_.”

Parkinson clears her throat. “We’re not debating the merits of the individual suggestions right now. Just listing possibilities,” she says sternly.

“Can’t you imagine sleeping under the stars and waking to the sound of the birds all around you?” Luna asks Malfoy.

Malfoy shakes his head, but is stopped from making any more comments by Parkinson’s forbidding glare.

“Greg,” she says. “Yes, I know you already thought of one thing. There must be something else you’ve always wanted to try, isn’t there? Don’t be shy.”

After a moment of consideration and fiddling with the bit of spare willow branch that he found by the arbour, Goyle mumbles, “Kites?”

“Oh!” Luna exclaims with delight. “We could make those ourselves and fly them up in the big meadow up the stream.”

Goyle’s face widens into a shy grin. “I always wanted to do that.”

“All right. Kites,” Parkinson confirms. “Potter?”

“Um, you said something about cooking over the fire? I know a bit about doing that,” Harry says. He, Hermione, and Ron only tried it a few times out of boredom when they were on the run together, but gave it up in favour of other methods when they realised they didn’t have the proper kind of pans. He’d be willing to give it another go, now that the stakes aren’t as high for making edible food.

“We could do that in the evening for dinner,” Luna suggests. “There’s no reason why we can’t start later in the afternoons once the nights are warm.”

They go around the table until no one has any more ideas. When Parkinson reads the list back, it now includes building a bridge over the stream (Luna, with a nod to Malfoy’s stonework skills), fireworks (Malfoy), putting on some kind of musical or theatrical performance (Parkinson), and an expedition to look for a secret colony of fairies, complete with maps and magical compasses and spy glasses (Luna, of course). 

“Let’s take a break for a bit. Then we can move to the tent and narrow down the list while we have our tea,” Parkinson says. She rolls up the parchment and sends it and the quill flying into the tent with a flick of her wand.

Luna and Goyle go to the garden to discuss the rest of the spring planting. After they depart, Malfoy announces that he’s going to Floo back to his flat to get a book and a jumper for later, leaving Harry alone with Parkinson.

He’s unsure how to break the awkward silence while they straighten the chairs and Vanish the empty Butterbeer bottles. There’s something _sharp_ about her, Harry thinks, a fierceness that he finds both intriguing and a bit off-putting. He’s not sure if he likes her yet, but it’s difficult to imagine these gatherings without her caustic tongue and vivid personality.

Harry looks around the clearing for something to do until tea. “That meadow that Luna mentioned, the one further up the stream. Do you know if it’s far?” he asks Parkinson.

“Not far. Are you thinking of walking there now? I can show it to you, if you like,” she says. “Just let me change out of these shoes into something better for walking.”

They walk side-by-side down to the stream, then Parkinson (now back in her red wellies) takes the lead on the narrow path that goes to the meadow. The stream is already shrinking to its more slender, summer proportions, while the forest floor is growing lush with ferns and other low-growing plants. Overhead, the new leaves have created a canopy of pale green. It’s a feast for Harry’s eyes, and he doesn’t know how he’ll be able to bear spending any length of time in his colourless, cramped flat anymore.

Just before they leave the forest, the path cuts through a wide swath of blue flowers. Parkinson looks over her shoulder and smiles at the look of wonder on Harry’s face.

“Bluebells. Aren’t they beautiful? Take a deep breath,” she orders, then inhales the sweet scent with him. “They’re called ‘fairy bells’ too, but I like to imagine the fairies wearing them as tiny blue skirts. Fashionable attire for springtime, but so passé once the summer flowers bloom,” she laughs.

The path ends where the meadow begins and the sound of the trickling stream is replaced by the hum of insects. Harry and Parkinson climb to the highest spot, where they can survey the entire expanse of the meadow. Luna was right that this would be a perfect spot to fly kites.

Harry almost laughs out loud thinking about what a sight they’ll be, traipsing around Devon with kites and spy glasses and treasure maps—things that seem more fitting for children than people who are twenty or twenty-one years old.

“What are you smiling about?” Parkinson asks with an arch of her eyebrow.

“I was just thinking about our summer plans. We’re like a bunch of little kids on summer holidays.”

Parkinson doesn’t look amused. “Why shouldn’t we be? Are you worried what people will think if they find out?” she asks.

“No, of course not! It all sounds like fun to me. They’re just not things I imagined doing now. As an adult, I mean.” Harry huffs in frustration when Parkinson continues to frown at him. He truly wasn’t belittling anyone’s ideas.

“I’m sorry it all seems _childish_ to you, Potter. I wouldn’t expect you to understand that not everyone had the chance to just be _little kids on summer holiday_ when they were growing up.”

Harry feels his stomach drop.

“Do you think Luna got to spend her summers with friends?” Parkinson continues, her voice lowering dangerously. “Or Draco played in the woods and explored the countryside? I spent my childhood in London. My parents wouldn’t even take me to a park because there might be _Muggles_ there. I’m not going to tell you what our summers _were_ like. I’ve only just met you, really, and the others’ stories aren’t mine to tell. So what if we want to play outside like kids? We’re not hurting anyone.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut and turns away from her. Those endless summers at Privet Drive replay in his mind, every one of them lonely and miserable. Window bars and empty play parks and angry voices.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, submerged in his memories, when Parkinson calls his name. After blinking at her for a few moments, he registers the confused expression on her face.

“I never got to do any of this stuff when I was a kid, either,” Harry explains quietly. He extends his hand to Parkinson. “I’m glad I have the chance to now, truly. And I’m grateful that you and Malfoy and Goyle are letting me join in.”

Parkinson studies him with a grave expression, then takes his hand and squeezes it. “We’re happy to have you. We were only doing it for Luna to begin with, but I think you’ve earned a place here now. And we should really start using first names, for Merlin’s sake.”

“All right… Pansy,” Harry says.

“ _All right,_ Harry,” she mimics. “Let’s go back now, before the others start without us.”

They stride back down the slope, feeling much more companionable than when they climbed it. Just before they reach the path, a hare darts out of the grass in front of them, a streak of brown fur.

“Well, I think that can only be interpreted as a sign that Luna wants us to hurry back,” Pansy laughs. “Come along, Harry!”

* * *

“ _'Isobel slipped her hand into his as they gazed down at the dark surface of the lake twenty feet below, unafraid to take the plunge now that she and Adrian were jumping together. He turned and held her gaze for a long moment, as if he were making a silent promise to—_ ’ Greg, are you even listening?”

“Aw, Pansy, you know I don’t like that romantic stuff,” Greg says, looking up from the bit of wood that he’s whittling into some kind of animal for Luna. “When are they getting back to the plan to sneak into the goblin fortress? I like that bit.”

“Not for a while,” Parkinson says, sitting up from her pile of cushions to give him a stern look. “This is a _classic wizarding novel_. I still cannot believe that Draco’s the only one who’s read it. He’s surprisingly romantic beneath that cool exterior, aren’t you, darling? Didn’t you used to read it every summer?”

Harry keeps his expression neutral when Draco catches his eye, even though he has the terrible urge to make a face at him. This new phase of their acquaintance is still fragile, and both of them are trying to be careful not to disturb the harmony of the group by starting a row.

Draco turns away quickly to address Pansy. “Not every summer,” he murmurs. They share a look of understanding that doesn’t need explaining to anyone in the tent.

Pansy resumes reading, illuminated from above by a glowing bauble that she conjured; Greg returns to his work with his pocket knife with Luna curled up beside him, a sketchbook on her lap. The rain is sliding off the _Impervius_ Charm around the tent and tapping a dull, steady rhythm as it drips onto the edge of the platform. Beneath the sky-blue and sunshine-yellow fabric—a prescient choice on Luna’s part, Harry realises, for days like today—the floor is crowded with cushions and empty mugs and five people in their stocking feet. It took some manoeuvering to squeeze into the small space, like Teddy’s wooden puzzle blocks that fit into a shallow box.

The tent is stuffy from Luna’s Warming Charms and Harry’s legs are getting cramped from sitting criss-cross on his cushion. He looks longingly through the gap in the front panels of the tent. The story that Pansy’s reading is interesting, but it’s getting difficult to focus on wizard-bandits with hearts of gold and their goblin nemeses when all Harry wants to do is get a breath of fresh air in his lungs.

When Pansy pauses for a sip of water, Harry seizes the opportunity to stand and hobble toward the entrance on his stiff legs.

“Keep going. I just need to stretch my legs for a few minutes,” he says, reaching for his boots.

“Would you mind making another pot of tea while you’re up? I think I could use a little pick-me-up,” Luna says, tipping sideways to rest her head against Greg’s bicep.

Pansy turns her sharp eyes on them, frowning, then shuts the book with a thud. “Fine, we’ll take a break after this chapter. But there’s an exciting development coming up that you won’t want to wait until next weekend to hear.”

Harry casts an _Impervius_ Charm over himself and steps out into the rain. After taking a few deep inhales, he walks towards the house at a leisurely pace to savour the cool air on his face.

The sound of footsteps behind him, just as he’s passing the garden, makes him look over his shoulder. It’s Draco, clomping across the clearing with brisk strides to catch up with Harry.

“Do you mind if I come with you?” he asks.

“Of course not,” Harry replies, curious as to why Draco seems… uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because they’re alone together, which hasn’t happened before.

They slip out of their boots inside the door, and Draco sits at the table while Harry fills the kettle and lights the hob. The noise causes Luna’s dad to lean out of a door down the hallway.

“Hello, boys,” Xeno says amiably. “Back in for some provisions? It’s tipping it down out there today! How’s the tent holding up?”

“We’re nice and dry, don’t worry,” Harry says. “Just making another pot of—oh, I forgot the pot.”

“There’s another one in the cupboard to the left of the sink,” Xeno says, then sings out, “Mind the geraniums!” just before he disappears back into the other room.

Harry grins when he finds the teapot. It’s shaped like an enormous garden snail and painted in lurid shades of fuchsia and yellow. When he holds it up for Draco to see, Draco raises his eyebrows but doesn’t seem as amused as Harry is.

“Have you seen it already, then?” Harry asks him, keeping an eye on the Fanged Geraniums while he casts a Warming Charm on the pot and measures out the tea. “Did Luna make it?”

“I’ve no idea. And no, I haven’t seen it before.”

The flat tone of his voice gets Harry’s attention. “What’s the matter? Is Pansy mad that we wanted to stop for a bit?”

“I don’t think so,” Draco says. “Look, I… I wanted to ask you something.”

Harry sets the teapot down and takes a seat at the table. “All right.”

“It’s something that’s been bothering me for the past couple of weeks,” Draco says, keeping his gaze on the windows, just over Harry’s left shoulder. “I’m trying to understand why you’re here, I suppose. I know Luna’s your friend, but she never mentioned spending time with you outside the occasional pub night. And I can’t imagine you’re lacking for friends to keep you company.”

“Yes, I do have other friends and I do hang out with them. That doesn’t mean I don’t have any free time. Or that I can’t make new friends.” Harry crosses his arms across his chest, trying to understand just what Draco is asking. “Do you think I’m keeping an eye on you lot, or something?”

“Are you?”

“No! I’m just here because I want to be. Because I’m enjoying it. And I was completely certain that your friendship with Luna is genuine by the second time I came over.”

“Your other friends don’t think so, I’d wager. They must think we’re trying to _insinuate_ ourselves back into decent society again,” Draco says bitterly.

“I haven’t told anyone.”

Draco’s head jerks around and finally looks Harry in the face. “You haven’t? Why ever not?”

“I got the impression that you didn’t want people to know,” Harry shrugs. “I mean, you three have been friends with Luna for, what, a couple years now? And she never mentioned it. So I just thought it was something all of you wanted to keep private.”

Harry gets up to take the whistling kettle off the stove. Draco is silent behind him while he fills the snail teapot and fits the lid back into the top. When he turns back, Draco is still watching Harry warily.

“You don’t believe me,” Harry sighs.

“I do. I’m trying to understand how you can show up here and just decide to forget the past—” Draco snaps his fingers. “—like it never happened.”

“I _know_ it happened. And I didn’t decide on a whim _a month ago_ to let bygones be bygones. I did that a long time ago. If you read the newspaper the first few months after the war, you’d know that I even made public statements about it when the trials ended.” Harry runs his hand through his hair. “I’d be a bloody hypocrite if I showed up here and behaved like an arsehole, not to mention the fact that it would make Luna unhappy.”

Draco is quiet for a moment, then he nods. “We should take the tea out to the tent before it steeps too long.”

Harry finds a tea towel to wrap around the hot teapot and carries the bundle to the door.

“Cast one on me?” Harry asks when Draco draws his wand to cast an _Impervius_ over himself. He feels the charm settle over him, a slight change in the air pressure in his ears, then follows Draco outside.

The rain has lessened somewhat and the sky looks brighter, though it might just appear so after the dim kitchen. Harry’s thinking about the stream where it pours into the river and what the swirling water must look like after it’s been fed by a downpour, when Draco interrupts with another question.

“Why did you decide to let it go? If you don’t mind my asking, that is,” Draco says. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were still angry about all of it, even now. Hell, I’m angry sometimes. Not with you, of course, with… well, never mind.”

Harry stops walking. He’d rather finish this conversation now than in front of the others. It feels important to talk things out with Draco, even if they have to do it in the rain while Harry’s holding a snail teapot and their boots are sinking into the mud.

“I wanted it to be over,” Harry explains softly. “Not just the war, but the divisions and hatred. And it can’t truly be over unless we stop hurting each other. Holding onto old grudges and retaliating against people who weren’t even responsible for the shit we went through isn’t really _peace_ , you know? I know I can’t convince everyone to feel the same way, but I made a conscious choice—for myself—to move on.”

Draco swallows and closes his eyes. There are splotches of pink on his cheeks, Harry notices, and his hair has lost its usual smoothness in the humid air.

“I never really apologised to you. Not properly,” Draco says without opening his eyes.

“Consider it done, then.”

“Just like that?” Draco’s eyes open in surprise.

“Yep. Just like that,” Harry says. “Well, we could shake hands, but…” He lifts his bundle with a lopsided grin.

Draco smiles at that. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for giving me a second chance. And Greg and Pansy, as well.”

“Thank you for giving me one, too. I understand why none of you wanted me here at first. I didn’t exactly take the high road myself when we were at school.”

“You’re welcome. Shall we go have our tea, now that we’ve settled things?”

Harry looks down, then passes the teapot to Draco.

“Hold this for a second.” He pulls his feet, one at a time, from the mud with some difficulty, careful not to lose his balance. “Okay, now I’m ready.”

Draco huffs a laugh and carries the teapot the rest of the way back to the tent. Harry trails after him, reluctant to squeeze back into the stuffy tent. But he thinks he’ll be able to make a case for taking a walk after tea, since the weather seems to be improving. He wonders if the bluebells are still blooming.

Greg pokes his head out of the tent when they approach. “Password,” he demands.

“I thought we agreed there wouldn’t be a password for the tent,” Draco says. “It’s not like someone’s going to try to sneak in and steal the cushions, for fuck’s sake.”

“Password,” Greg repeats with a grin, obviously enjoying ruffling Draco’s feathers.

“How would I know the password when I didn’t even know I’d need one?” Draco fumes, but Greg doesn’t budge. “Fine, the password is _‘Move that big lump of a head before I pour hot tea on it.’_ How’s that?”

“Let him in, Greg,” Luna laughs from within the tent. She nudges him out of the way to take the teapot from Draco. Harry hears her delighted cry when she unwraps it and sees the garden snail.

“I forgot to take the other one inside, so your dad said to use this one,” Harry explains, stepping inside. “It’s very charming.”

“It is,” Luna agrees. “My mother Transfigured it from a plain teapot and let me choose the colours. I was about five years old, I think.”

“Oh,” Harry says, looking up from where he was rummaging in the picnic hamper for the tin of biscuits. He rarely hears Luna mention her mum. “Is it okay that I used it?”

“Of course. That’s what it’s for.” Luna tilts her head at him as if it’s a strange question.

Harry’s quiet while she pours out the tea for him. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have small, precious artifacts from a lost loved one. The thought that Luna could have lost everything that she had from her mother when the old house exploded makes Harry feel ill. He knows Luna doesn’t want or need another apology, and Harry is humbled yet again by her generous spirit as he watches her pass the teapot to Pansy for examination.

Pansy takes out her wand and points it at her mug with a pout of concentration. With a murmured incantation, the mug becomes fuchsia with large, yellow polka dots. Pansy pours her tea with a flourish that earns her a giggle from Luna.

Harry’s heavy thoughts lift at the sight, like dark clouds blown away from the sun by the wind. The tent doesn’t feel so cramped and stifling now. It feels cosy. And safe. It’s the same feeling that Harry gets when he’s at the Burrow for Sunday roasts, when a group of people who care for each other deeply are crammed into too-small a space.

Once everyone is settled back onto their cushions with tea and biscuits, Pansy picks up her book and clears her throat.

_“‘He turned and held her gaze for a long moment, as if he were making a silent promise to stay beside her always, no matter how icy the water, no matter how dark and tangled the forest, no matter how rough the road. Isobel squeezed his hand once, then they turned as one and stepped into the empty air.’”_


	3. Yarrow (for healing)

“What have you got there?” Harry asks, setting the picnic hamper on the table.

Luna and Pansy lean back so he can see what’s inside the basket that’s on the table. It’s a snake with dull, green-brown scales, curled up and motionless.

“Hello, Harry. Greg found this little fellow in the garden. It looks like an animal tried to catch him, probably a badger or a crow, poor thing.” Luna reaches into the basket and strokes the snake’s head with a gentle index finger. “I’m going to see what I can do for him.”

“Are you sure that’s safe?” Pansy asks. She looks ready to bolt if the snake makes the slightest movement, eyes wide beneath her large sun hat.

“He’s just a grass snake. They’re not venomous, like adders are,” Luna replies. “Do you think you could speak to him, Harry? Just to tell him that we’re trying to help?”

“Er, I can’t do that anymore, actually,” Harry mumbles. “It turned out to be… kind of a temporary thing.”

Pansy gives him a strange look, but doesn’t ask. It’s not a topic Harry even wants to think about on such a perfect spring day. He deflects with a question for Luna.

“Is there anything else I can do to help? Do you need me to get anything?”

“I have some Dittany in the house that will do just fine,” Luna says. “Greg’s hoping you’ll help him get the last of the seedlings planted today, if you don’t mind. Pansy can help me if I need someone.”

“I am not touching that thing,” Pansy says vehemently. “You know I adore you, Luna, but do not ask me to come any closer to a snake.”

“Ironic,” Harry quips.

“Ha ha,” Pansy says. “Slytherin. Yes, I get it. Such surprising wit from a Gryffindor.”

“Speaking of Slytherins, where’s Draco today?”

“In France for a week, visiting his parents for his birthday,” Luna says with a worried frown.

“His semiannual concession to filial duty. _Grudging_ concession,” Pansy adds, “for his mother’s sake only.”

“So he and Lucius…” Harry asks. He hasn’t learnt much about Draco’s life outside their weekend gatherings yet. One of the things he was looking forward to today, besides being out in the bright sunshine, was getting Draco to open up around him. He’ll settle for finding out more from his friends, though, if he has to.

Pansy grimaces. “Not on good terms, to say the least. But I think that’s something he’d rather explain himself, if he chooses to.”

“We’ll have a nice birthday celebration to cheer him up next Saturday,” Luna says. “All right, I’m going to go get some supplies from inside, then I’ll work out here where the light is better. Hopefully we can have this little one slithering on his way by dinner time.”

“I’ll come with you,” Pansy says, already backing out from beneath the arbour.

“And I’ll help Greg get some work done until lunchtime.”

Harry and the girls part ways at the garden gate. Greg is working beside several wooden trays of seedlings.

“Need some help?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, I want to get the rest of these in before lunch.” Greg hands Harry a trowel and points to an empty bed. “About eighteen inches apart and four inches deep.”

“Okay. What are they?”

“Cucumbers.” Greg squints up at Harry. “And put a Sunblock Charm on, if you haven’t already.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry grins. He casts the charm and then takes the tray that Greg hands to him. “Where did you get all these?”

“My house. I built a small greenhouse to start seedlings for our garden, and it’s easy enough to grow some extras for Xeno and Luna.”

“Oh, wow,” Harry says, genuinely impressed. “I didn’t know you could build stuff like that. Big things, I mean.”

He starts on the seedlings, hollowing out a space in the soil with the trowel, then gently settling each little plant in place. They’re only a few inches tall now, but if he remembers anything about vegetables from Hagrid’s garden, it’s that they can grow considerably in a few weeks. Harry wonders if there’ll be pumpkins in this garden and if they’ll be _helped along_ by a bit of magic, as Hagrid’s were.

“So, Draco’s in France?” If Harry can’t get anything out of Pansy, maybe he’ll have better luck with Greg. Not that he’s a talkative bloke, generally speaking, but Harry can almost always get an answer to a direct question. “Pansy said he’s not going to enjoy that very much.”

“Hmm,” Greg says. “Guess you could say that.”

Harry tries a different approach. “It’s nice that he gets to have a holiday from his Potions apprenticeship. Though maybe he’d rather be doing that than dealing with Lucius.”

“Probably.”

“So, does Draco just sit around with his parents all week? Or do they go out… places?” Harry pushes. Honesty, he can’t imagine what kinds of things the Malfoys would do together. Maybe buy expensive things in posh wizarding shops.

“Ask him yourself when he gets back,” Greg says. “If you’re so curious about him.”

Harry feels his cheeks burning and he quickly returns to his seedlings. It’s not like Harry’s desperate to know all about Draco. At least, Harry doesn’t _think_ that’s what Greg was insinuating. He glances over his shoulder, but Greg’s expression is as placid as usual. Harry finishes planting the rest of the cucumbers with the niggling feeling that he’s been caught out, somehow.

Between seedlings, Harry straightens up to stretch his back and sees that Pansy and Luna have returned to the injured snake. He can hear Pansy’s voice across the clearing, close to panic. She seems determined to help Luna in spite of her fear, and Harry can’t help but admire that. He thinks of Ron and the spiders with a smile.

When everything’s planted and watered, Greg takes charge of putting things away and Harry goes up to the house to give his hands and face a proper cleaning with soap and water. There’s no sign of Xeno today, but Luna mentioned that it’s not unusual for him to go to _The Quibbler’_ s offices to get some work done on weekends. Luna works there with him, writing stories about the magical animals and habitats that she studies at home. Her writing has a unique charm that Harry thinks can only be truly appreciated by people who know Luna personally. He can almost hear her voice when he reads her articles.

Cleaned up and famished, Harry joins the others in the welcome shade of the arbour. The basket with the snake has been moved to the ground and covered with a thin cloth, presumably for the patient’s convalescence. And Pansy’s comfort.

“How’s the snake doing now?” Harry asks, opening the picnic hamper. Teddy and Andromeda are away today visiting Ted’s family, so Harry took the opportunity to make Cornish pasties this morning.

“He’ll be fine in a few hours, I think. I cast a light sedation charm so he won’t wriggle around so much,” Luna says.

Pansy looks a bit queasy. She’s taken off her hat and put on some oversized sunglasses instead, looking like she’s ready to star in an advert for French champagne or something. The image is probably going to be ruined by the Cornish pasties, Harry thinks.

“What shall we do this afternoon?” Luna asks just before biting into a pasty. “Oh, Harry, these are wonderful. Did you make them?”

“Yeah, another one of Molly’s recipes,” Harry beams. “Modified to be vegetarian for yours, of course.”

“It’s a warm day. Should we go wade in the river? Or go listen to Pansy’s book in the tent?”

“Both,” Greg says. “It feels nice in the shade.”

“Reading first, while we digest our lunches, then wading,” Pansy declares. “You’ll like the part coming up, Greg. Not a single romantic moment to be found. Well, I assume at least some of the bandits are shagging each other off stage, but we don’t get to hear about it, sadly. I’d place my gold on that ginger fellow and the burly one he’s so chummy with.”

Harry snorts. “They must have to sneak off in pairs to a quiet spot, since they all sleep in that cave together. Good thing there are lots of trees and boulders for privacy.”

“And good thing they’re all witches and wizards. I imagine it would be rather obvious if they came back to the cave covered in mud and leaves,” Pansy laughs. “Although everyone probably knows what they were up to anyway.”

“No secrets in the cave,” Harry agrees. “Do any of them decide to give up the outlaw life at the end of the book and settle down in some village? That would be rather disappointing, to be honest. But I can see how a real bed would be tempting after years of sleeping on the ground.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?”

Greg makes a disgusted noise. “Now I’m not going to be able to listen without wondering who’s boning who. Thanks for that.”

“When I write a book, you won’t have to wonder,” Pansy smirks.

“Will you start it soon?” Luna asks, standing to refill the glasses with lemonade. “Are you ready to begin writing?”

“Almost. There are a few more things I want to work out in my head first.”

“It’s going to be wonderful, I’m sure,” Luna says. “Please tell me if I can help in any way.”

“You’ll be the first to read it, I promise,” Pansy smiles warmly. “And you can tell me if it’s rubbish or not.”

“I don’t think she would say that, even if it is rubbish,” Harry points out.

“Of course I would never call it rubbish. I would help her make it the best it can be, just like I do for our _Quibbler_ articles.” Luna leans down to kiss the corner of Pansy’s mouth. “I’m going to go get an apple. Would anyone else like one?”

Pansy shakes her head, looking startled by Luna’s display of affection. Not even her sunglasses can disguise it before she manages to pull herself together behind a long sip of lemonade.

“M’good,” Greg says. “Just ate three pasties.”

“I’ll take one,” Harry says, making a mental note to bring some fruit next week. It will be refreshing on warm days like this. This leads to thoughts of tarts and pies made with stone fruits, which will mean a trip to the Burrow some evening after work for a refresher course in pastry crusts with Molly.

The three of them finish eating silently, lost in their own thoughts, until Luna returns. After handing Harry his apple, she peeks into the basket to check on the snake. Harry takes her happy hum to mean that the potion is taking effect and the wounds are healing.

“Did you ever think about being a magi-veterinarian, Luna?” Harry asks.

“Not really,” she replies. “Crups and Kneazles are nice, of course, but there are so many more kinds of animals that aren’t kept as pets. I’m content with the work I do now and my own studies. I’ve learnt a great deal from Mr Scamander through our correspondence.”

“You’re not going to leave us to apprentice with him, are you? I know he’s asked,” Pansy says.

“No, I could never leave Dad by himself. And there are enough magical animals in England to keep me occupied for a long time,” Luna smiles. “Maybe we’ll even see some this summer, if we’re lucky. There are still some wild places left here in Devon, if you know where to look.”

After tidying up their outdoor dining room, they cross the clearing to the tent. It’s almost as bright inside as it is out, thanks to the thin fabric. Harry takes advantage of their smaller number to stretch out on the cushions. His full belly and the sun-warmed air are making him content and drowsy; it’s going to be a struggle to stay awake.

Harry suddenly feels Draco’s absence more keenly than he has all afternoon. His sharp observations and lively banter with Pansy lend their gatherings a bit of zest. Or maybe just being in his presence, with their long and tangled history, is still a novel experience to Harry. Something that makes him feel more _awake_ than he has in a long time.

He decides to put Draco out of his mind and focus on listening to the story. Above him, the shadow of the trees at the edge of the clearing slowly creeps across the roof of the tent while Pansy reads. Harry watches the fabric wave gently in the light breeze and feels his eyes growing heavy.

He sleeps and dreams of snakes and heavy skies and mossy stone.

* * *

The following Saturday, the group gathers in the little garden in front of the Lovegood cottage to embark on their first outing away from the camp. Draco has returned, looking a bit pinched around the mouth when no one is speaking with him, but otherwise none the worse for wear. It’s another fine day, and the unanimous decision was made to have a hike and a picnic on a nearby hill that Luna knows well.

Harry looks around the garden while he waits for the others to be ready. This one is dedicated to flowers and herbs that all seem to be jumbled together in a motley assortment of raised beds. Some are made of woven branches, others of broken bits of stone that Harry assumes were from the old house. There’s even one made of empty tea tins stacked like bricks, their colourful labels still visible.

“Okay, let’s go,” Luna says, emerging from the house with a large purple satchel across her shoulder. “I’ll Side-Along you two at a time.”

Luna takes Pansy and Draco first, then returns in a few seconds for Harry and Greg. Without being asked, Greg picks up one of the two rucksacks sitting by Harry’s feet. They’re taking the place of the trusty picnic hamper today.

“Ready?” she asks when they’ve both taken hold of one of her arms, then spins them away into the darkness.

They land in a narrow lane in the woods beside a rotting wooden gate. Beyond the gate, a path leads down to the river, which is sending the murmur of flowing water to their ears. Harry’s filled with the same anticipation that he had the day he found the path to Luna’s house. An adventure lies ahead, and this time he’ll get to share it.

Luna leads the way. They walk single-file to the river’s edge, where the clear water flows over the dark stones of the riverbed and around larger boulders covered with moss and lichens. Some of the trees near the water’s edge have had the soil washed out from around their roots, causing them to lean over the water precariously.

“There are otter dens in some of these banks,” Luna calls over her shoulder. “But they usually don’t come out during the day.”

Harry is the last in the line, walking behind Draco. He’s wearing his usual pressed button-down and trousers with what looks like a well-worn pair of Muggle hiking boots. Harry watches his easy stride, which hardly falters on the rougher parts of the trail, and feels a bit clumsy in comparison. Despite his best efforts to watch his step, Harry keeps catching his toes on rocks hidden beneath the leaf litter.

Pansy and Luna are deep in conversation and Greg seems absorbed in their surroundings, craning his neck when he hears a bird singing above them or reaching out to touch the trees that grow close to the path.

Draco must feel the need for a bit of chatter while they walk because he calls back to Harry.

“How are you enjoying _Adrian’s Folly_ so far?” he asks.

“It’s good, yeah,” Harry says.

“Did Pansy get to the fortress part yet?”

“Er, well. I actually dozed off for a little while last time,” Harry says sheepishly. “Pansy was kind of cross about it. She woke me up with a Stinging Hex to the feet.”

Draco laughs. “I’m not surprised. She teases me about re-reading it so many times, but I think she loves that book more than anyone I know. She probably took it as a personal affront that you fell asleep.”

“Yeah, well my feet took it pretty personally,” Harry grumbles. “We went down to the river later to put our feet in, and cold water does not feel good after that particular hex, let me tell you.”

They continue around a wide curve of the river to where outcrops of stone loom beside the path. It feels darker here, like a place where giants or trolls would make their homes. Harry likes the fanciful image but decides he could do without any misadventures today beyond a blister or two.

Luna comes to a halt in front of a massive, mossy outcrop and waits for the others to catch up.

“This is where we turn off and start heading up to the tor. Shall we have a rest first?”

Everyone agrees. There’s no good place to sit, so they stand in a line along the path, facing the river. Greg points out the orange-breasted redstarts and tiny pied flycatchers flitting above them. Luna smiles at him fondly.

“I loved to come here with Dad when I was home for school holidays. The witch who owns the land where the trail begins let us Floo to her house, and she would have tea and custard creams waiting for us when we came back. Once I twisted my ankle and she wouldn’t let me leave until she put some salve on and wrapped it up for me.”

“Does she still live there?” Pansy asks, adjusting the silk scarf knotted around her head to hold her hair back.

“Oh, yes. I go down to see her sometimes. She likes to have company, especially now that she’s retired. And she still serves me custard creams with my tea,” Luna laughs.

Reenergized now, they resume their hike. Luna turns and disappears between two outcrops as suddenly as if she Disapparated. Harry didn’t even notice the narrow, steep path hidden there while they were resting. The first twenty feet are a struggle and Draco looks back more than once to make sure Harry is managing to find his footing. The slope becomes easier after that, a steady climb through the thinning trees.

They stop to catch their breath before continuing out onto the bright moorland. There’s no well-defined trail, just narrow tracks trampled bare by animals around patches of yellow-bloomed gorse and bracken. Luna told them earlier that there are wild ponies up here, but they were more likely to see sheep today.

Harry’s still behind Draco as they climb. He wants to ask about his trip to France but isn’t sure how to broach the subject without bringing up Lucius. Harry knows that he and Narcissa left England the day after Lucius’ house arrest ended, soon after the conclusion of the trials. He bought his freedom with a mountain of incriminating evidence against his fellow Death Eaters, provided to the Aurors with a façade of remorse that didn’t really fool anyone. Magical Law Enforcement took it, nonetheless, if only to ensure that most of Voldemort’s supporters would never see the outside of Azkaban again. Harry suspects that the Malfoys’ supposedly self-imposed exile was an unwritten part of the deal to keep him out of prison.

Only a fraction of the way to the top, Harry’s winded again.

“Go on. I’ll catch up in a minute,” he calls to the others. The jagged rock formation of the tor is clearly visible at the top of the hill, so there’s no chance of getting lost. He sits on a low boulder, worn almost smooth by the rain and wind, and rotates his sore ankles one at a time.

“That’s why I wore boots,” Draco points out, hands on his hips.

“Go walking much?” Harry asks, squinting up at him against the bright sky.

“The past few summers I have. It’s better than being cooped up in a little flat all weekend, especially on days like this.”

“Oh, so you don’t live at the Manor?” Harry asks, hoping that he’s not stumbling into a sensitive topic. The other three have continued on, so he can’t rely on their expressions to tell him if he’s putting his foot in it.

“No, I wouldn’t want to, especially by myself. Too many bad memories. It was better to close it up when my parents left for France with the remaining house-elves. I still go over there to walk around the grounds and go flying. Do you... get to fly much?”

The last part is asked almost shyly. Harry’s warmed by the thought that maybe Draco’s been wanting to ask him questions, too.

“Just at the Weasleys’ house on Sundays. There are usually enough people to toss the Quaffle around, if not for full teams. Charlie and I have Seekers games when he’s visiting from Romania, but that’s not very often.”

“They live nearby, don’t they?” Draco asks. “Luna mentioned it.”

“Yeah, outside Ottery St. Catchpole.”

When they stand, Draco extends his arm to indicate that Harry should lead the way. The wind is stronger now that they’re no longer sheltered by the forest. A crumbling stone wall cutting across the hill is the only sign of human hands up here, built by Muggle farmers when they brought their sheep to graze in the summers.

“I can’t believe Pansy is better at this than me,” Harry pants. “Does she climb stairs all day at home?”

Draco laughs. “She’s been keeping up with Luna for a while now. Weren’t the Gryffindor dorms on the seventh floor? In a tower, no less?”

“That was years ago! I’m beginning to realise that I spend too much time sitting at a desk and not enough time… climbing mountains.”

“It’s just a hill, Potter.”

Harry can hear the smile in Draco’s voice, but the use of his surname spoils the playful tone a bit.

“Pansy said we should use first names.”

“Sorry, old habits,” Draco replies. “Harry.”

_Oh, that’s strange._

Not in a bad way, just unsettling somehow. Harry keeps his legs moving and his lungs full of air while trying to put a finger on why hearing his own name in Draco’s deep drawl makes him feel like something’s squirming in his chest.

Pansy, Greg, and Luna are standing on the craggy stones at the pinnacle, admiring the view, when Harry and Draco finally catch up. The air is clear as a bell. A green patchwork of Muggle farmland stretches out in all directions, interrupted by areas of woodlands and the occasional scrub-covered hilltop. Further west, the high moorlands line the horizon, wild and desolate. It’s a view that’s worth the trek, without a doubt.

Harry slips his rucksack from his shoulders and eases himself down onto the rock to drink from his flask and will his heart rate to return to normal. Greg and Luna begin setting up for lunch by casting Cushioning Charms and Unshrinking and spreading out a large blanket from Luna’s bag. When they’re done, Harry drags his pack over and crawls onto the softer surface with groan.

“All right there, Harry?” Pansy asks. “We’re not going to have to carry you back, I hope.”

“Going down’s easier than getting up, isn’t it?” Harry asks, pulling paper-wrapped sandwiches from the rucksack. “It won’t be a problem.”

“Your knees might not think so,” she replies with a smirk as she accepts a sandwich from him.

Aside from a tiny, brown lizard in search of a basking spot that startles Pansy, their lunch is delightful. Harry feels like he’s drinking the fresh air the way that parched soil soaks up the rain. 

Everyone eats ravenously, appetites whetted by the exercise. Sandwiches, fruit, packets of crisps, and chocolate biscuits disappear in rapid succession in the late spring sunshine. Harry decides he’d be happy hiking around all summer, and he’s on the verge of telling Draco that he has the right idea when Luna reaches into her bag again.

“In honour of your twenty-first birthday, Draco,” she says when she places the cardboard box in front of him.

Draco cautiously lifts the flaps of the box and looks inside. “Oh, Luna, thank you. You needn’t have gone to the trouble, really.”

“What’s a birthday celebration without a cake?” she smiles.

Draco glances up at Harry before lifting a small platter from the box to reveal a lopsided layer cake, liberally covered with green icing and decorated with Peppermint Toads and dandelion flowers. Harry grins, genuinely delighted by the sight. Greg whistles under his breath.

“It looks spectacular, Luna,” Draco says, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Shall we slice it?”

And so their hike is capped off with dense wedges of strawberry pumpkin cake with basil-flavoured icing. Harry tells Luna—with complete honesty—that he’s never tasted anything like it. Even if he secretly wishes she’d save her creative impulses for something besides food.

They stay atop the tor a while longer, enjoying the fine day with their legs stretched out on the sun-warmed warm rock. Pansy leans close to Luna to watch her sketch in a little notebook. Greg gets up, mumbling about needing to find some bushes for a piss.

“So, did you do anything fun on your actual birthday?” Harry asks Draco.

“Not really. Just dinner with my parents,” he replies, eyes fixed on some distant point below.

“At a restaurant?”

“Yes, in Nice.”

From his clipped answers, Harry guesses that it wasn’t an enjoyable celebration. Maybe he had a row with his parents. Harry tries a different subject.

“Did you hear about the snake that Luna healed last week? She was amazing. Fixed him right up.”

“Yes, Pansy mentioned it.”

Harry gets the strong impression that Draco doesn’t want to talk right now. But then he moves over to sit closer to Luna and Pansy and admires her sketch quite enthusiastically, leaving Harry to assume that Draco just doesn’t want to talk to _him._

 _Fuck,_ Harry thinks, heart sinking. _What did I do?_

When Greg returns—after a short detour to climb another rock a few dozen yards away—they pack up the remains of their picnic, making sure to Vanish every apple core and crisp bag.

Harry falls in between Pansy and Greg this time. He listens to Draco chat with Luna about stone circles in the front of the procession while he tries to puzzle out why Draco’s upset with him. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked about his birthday, though Draco didn’t seem to mind when the others mentioned it. He seemed quite at ease with Harry until Luna brought out the cake.

Was it about the cake? Draco did give him a strange look when he opened the box.

There’s no way to find out now, so Harry focuses on keeping his footing on the rough slope of the hill. It’s much faster going down than up, but Pansy was right about the toll on his knees. They return the way they came, back to the steep path between the mossy outcrops and along the river to the wooden gate.

Back at Luna’s, they split up. Luna and Pansy go inside to make tea, and Greg makes a beeline for the garden. Harry follows Draco to the tent, determined to do whatever is needed to set things right with him.

He slips off his trainers and collapses on some cushions with a heavy sigh. Draco ignores him, straightening things that don’t need straightening and fussing over the old phonograph that he brought over from his flat.

“Are you upset I didn’t make you a birthday cake?” Harry blurts out.

Draco startles but doesn’t turn around. “Of course not. Why would I be? You are under no obligation to bake me a birthday cake, even if Luna asks you to.”

“Wait, you think that Luna asked me and I said _no_?” Harry asks, appalled. “She never asked me, and I didn’t know she was making one until she brought it out. I made the biscuits because I thought they’d be easier to carry.”

“It’s fine, Potter. ”

“Harry.”

“It’s fine, _Harry,_ ” Draco huffs.

Harry leans back and laces his fingers together behind his head. “Maybe I’d like to bake you a cake.”

Draco looks over his shoulder with an incredulous expression.

“You like chocolate, right?” Harry says. “I’ll make it for next week.”

“I wouldn’t want Luna to think that I didn’t appreciate hers,” Draco says, even though he looks pleased by Harry’s offer.

“It’ll be a secret birthday cake,” Harry grins. “Just between us.”

“All right. If you really want to.” Draco sinks onto a cushion next to the phonograph and flips through the stack of records beside it. “I won’t stop you.”

Harry revels in the small smile that lingers on Draco’s face until the girls arrive with the tea.

* * *

“How much longer?” Greg asks, peering over Harry’s shoulder.

“The fire has to burn down a bit before I can cook on it,” Harry explains patiently. “You don’t want your sausages burnt, do you?”

Greg sits on the bench beside Harry with a dramatic sigh. No, calling it dramatic would be uncharitable, Harry decides. Greg’s been working outside all day and the man understandably wants his dinner. Harry leans forward to prod the burning logs with a fireplace poker from the house, hoping to hurry things along a bit.

This is the first time they’ve gathered here on a weeknight this summer. It’s the solstice today, which provides the perfect excuse for a bonfire and a few fireworks once it’s dark. And since Luna and Pansy will both be away this weekend, they won’t have to wait a full two weeks between camp days.

Greg sighs again and Harry decides to take pity on him.

“I think I bought too many rolls,” he says in a conspiratorial voice. “Better hurry before the others come back outside.”

Harry is treated to a grateful cuff on the shoulder that he’s almost certain will leave a mark, and then he’s alone by the fire again. The girls are in the house changing into their solstice finery and Draco is helping Pansy mix up a batch of Pimm’s to have with dinner. The sun is still well above the hills, a bright blur behind the clouds. It’s a fine evening to be outside, even if Draco complained that they wouldn’t be able to see the stars tonight. And Harry’s never celebrated the solstice before.

It seems most of the celebrating he’d done in the past few years, aside from Christmas, has been done in pubs for someone’s birthday. Harry invariably spends the evening crammed between friends in a booth, sipping ale and listening to the same conversations about their jobs or training programmes, their landlords, and the price of Quidditch tickets. He finds it rather dull, to be honest.

Until he started coming to Luna’s, adulthood seemed to be a straight, monotonous road stretching before him. It made Harry feel a bit restless and dissatisfied, made him think of doing something reckless—what, exactly, he didn’t know. But then he would tell himself not to be ungrateful for the blessings in his life. For friends and family and peace.

The past two months have been like stepping out of a dim room into the sunshine. Harry has realised that maybe he was right to feel like his life had become lackluster. And that it’s within his power to do something about it, instead of letting yet another week or month or year slip past him with nothing more exciting to show for it than some meagre praise from his boss or a nasty hangover.

The sound of voices startles Harry from his thoughts. Luna, in a yellow dress and a circle of ivy upon her head, catches Harry’s eye first. Pansy is beside her, wearing deep blue robes and a crown of small, white flowers, the twilight sky to Luna’s sun.

Harry looks at Draco last. He’s dressed smartly, with a deep green waistcoat and polished brogues. Whatever lingering tension he was carrying from his visit to France is gone now. His expression is bright as he makes his way across the clearing with a pitcher in his hands. Harry likes to think that the chocolate cake last Saturday helped cheer him up a bit.

When the fire is ready, Harry levitates a pan above the glowing logs and fries the sausages. The smell makes his mouth water. Greg is drawn back to the fire and chats with Harry about the Quidditch League standings while he cooks. Luna and Pansy take charge of setting out the rest of the food, occasionally calling questions to Harry across the grass. 

The sun is going down by the time they sit down beneath the arbour, surrounded by the sweetness of the honeysuckle blossoms. Before they eat, Luna stands and raises her glass to make a solstice toast.

“To light,” she says solemnly. “May it illuminate new paths for us to follow and spark new hopes and aspirations. May it shine into our hearts today, the longest day of the year, so that we may carry it through the darker days ahead.”

As if Luna conjured it with her words, Harry can feel a glow in his chest as they clink their glasses together. He wishes he could express as elegantly as Luna how grateful he is to be admitted into their circle and be a part of this little wonderland they’ve created.

After dinner, they prepare the bonfire by levitating more wood onto the remains of the fire. It’s almost dark enough to need Conjured lights when it’s ready, and the tent is a ghostly shape at the edge of the clearing. Harry shivers, trying not to think of the forest around them, even though he knows by now that he’d find nothing worse than a surly badger if he chose to walk among these trees. He turns his attention to watching Greg cast a well-aimed _Incendio_ at the base of the stacked wood.

“So, what does one do at a solstice bonfire?” Harry asks.

“Dance around it. Jump over it,” Pansy replies. “Or get married.”

“Beltane for the jumping,” Luna corrects her. “But the days around Midsummer used to be popular for handfastings.”

“I’m not getting married tonight,” Harry laughs. “No offence to any of you.”

“None taken, believe me,” Greg growls.

“We can crown the Oak and Holly Kings,” Luna suggests. “I wove them this afternoon and put them in the tent. You tell Harry the story, Pansy, if he doesn’t know it.”

“They symbolise the two halves of the year,” Pansy explains as Luna dashes off into the darkness. “The Oak King represents light and growth and fertility. The Holly King is his opposite, representing darkness, sleep, and decline. They battle for dominance in a constant cycle that creates the seasons, round and round forever.”

“And what’s that got to do with the summer solstice?” Harry asks.

“The Oak King reaches the peak of his power at Midsummer, then the balance begins to tip in favour of the Holly King, who’s at _his_ strongest at the winter solstice.”

“Here we are,” Luna sings out, stepping back into the firelight. “Would you like to wear one, Harry?”

“Why not? I’ll wear the holly, if that’s okay,” he says, taking the crown from Luna’s hands.

“A decisive choice,” Pansy observes.

“My wand is holly,” Harry replies, setting the thick ring of glossy leaves on his head. “Nothing more to it than that.”

“Draco, will you wear the oak?” Luna asks.

Draco dons the crown with a wry smile at Harry. “No more battles, I hope.”

“No more battles,” he agrees, returning to his place on a bench. “What’s yours made of, Pansy?”

“Yarrow flowers. Luna picked them from the meadow for me.”

“They promote healing and inspiration,” Luna chimes in. “Mine’s ivy, a symbol of friendship and loyalty. Greg won’t wear one, but his would represent fertility, since he’s our gardener-in-residence.”

Greg pulls a face at her and grumbles something under his breath about looking like a tit. Apparently, there’s a limit to the things he’s willing to do for Luna. Harry, buoyed by the joyful mood of the evening and a couple of drinks, feels open to almost anything. He reaches up and holds his crown while he drinks the last bit from his glass and wonders if the girls have used Sticking Charms on theirs.

“Will you sing the song for us, Draco?” Pansy asks later in the evening. “The one about the kings?”

Draco shrugs. “It’s been a long time. I’m not sure I remember all the words.”

“I’ll prompt you, if you forget,” she offers.

“Why don’t you sing it yourself, then?”

“Oh, darling, you know I sound like a dying Fwooper. You, on the other hand, have a lovely voice. And all those years of lessons shouldn’t go to waste, should they?” Pansy coaxes.

“All right, fine,” Draco says, standing up—a little unsteadily, Harry notices.

He launches into a song of twin brothers locked in a perpetual battle over the earth, set to a lively tune in a minor key. The Oak King, Draco sings, rules over a lush, green kingdom of light and abundance and reckless pleasures. Through the long days of summer he keeps his brother, the Holly King, at bay. But after Midsummer the Oak King’s power begins to wane, and so the days grow shorter; the fields and trees bear their fruit and grow no more.

The Holly King grows stronger during this time and defeats his brother at Samhain, stripping the last leaves from the trees and plunging the land into winter. His austere reign brings long nights of repose and reflection.

The Oak King’s bitter exile through the dark months lasts only until he has regained enough strength to challenge his brother’s rule. At Beltane, Oak reclaims the throne and the world throws itself into springtime growth and summer bounty once again.

Harry watches, enraptured, as he listens to Draco’s rich, tenor voice over the crackle of the bonfire. The light of the flames illuminates his sapling-slender form and turns his hair golden beneath his crown of oak leaves. There’s something about the graceful tilt of his neck as he sings, the expressive way he uses his hands, that makes the breath catch in Harry’s chest.

He applauds with the rest when Draco finishes the song with a grin and a wobbly bow. He can’t look away when Draco sits back down and takes a long sip of his drink, eyes fluttering closed as he tips his head back.

But it’s only when Pansy slides her hand around Draco’s waist and rests her head on his shoulder that Harry understands what’s happening.

 _Sweet Merlin_ , he wants to know what it’s like to feel the heat of Draco’s body through his shirt. He wants to hear the low murmur of Draco’s voice close to his ear as Draco’s cornsilk hair slips between his fingers.

_Fuck._

Harry closes his eyes and reels from the revelation, the sudden tilt of his world in a new direction. He sits like that for a few moments until the first wave of emotions subsides. But just when he thinks he’s found his bearings, the sudden fear that the others are watching him—that _Draco_ is watching him—makes him lurch to his feet.

“Need the loo,” he says, setting his holly crown on the bench and turning towards the house.

“We’ll set off the fireworks when you get back,” Luna replies.

“Use a _Lumos_ , you knob!” Greg calls when he sees Harry stumble in his rush to get away from the bonfire.

He takes the advice, then almost runs the rest of the way.

In the front garden, Harry sits on the steps leading up to the kitchen door. He murmurs a _Nox_ and lets the darkness of the moonless, starless night swallow him. He wishes he could blame these thoughts about Draco on the Pimm’s, but the more he considers it, the more Harry knows that his impulse to touch another man isn’t something his half-intoxicated brain concocted tonight. Harry buries his face in his hands.

It’s been there for a long time, if he’s honest with himself. In the swoop of his stomach from seeing Oliver Wood’s dimples. And the urge to stare at the ropey muscles of Charlie’s forearms when he grips his broom. It’s the same feeling he used to get when he saw Ginny flick her long braid over her freckled shoulder. Harry’s just never allowed himself to acknowledge it before.

His mind circles back to Draco singing in the firelight, and there it is again, the warm surge of what he now recognises as _attraction_.

Attraction to a man.

Attraction to _Draco sodding Malfoy_ , of all people.

Harry sits up and runs his hands through his hair. It’s like he’s been handed a box holding something tentacled and writhing and told _this was yours all along and now you have to figure out what to do with it._ Harry’s not sure if he wants to keep looking at it or push it away.

He can’t keep hiding here in Luna’s front garden, that’s for certain. He’s already been here for at least ten minutes. There’ll be time to sort himself out later, when he’s alone and sober in the privacy of his own home.

Harry casts another _Lumos_ and takes a deep breath. Surely he can make it through the next half hour or so. He won’t be the only one leaving after the fireworks, since most of them have to go to work tomorrow morning.

With the sounds of the crickets and frogs loud in his ears, Harry walks through the gate within his small bubble of light. When he reaches the bonfire, he sets the holly back on his head with trembling hands and rejoins the celebration. 


	4. Foxglove (for insincerity)

For the first time this summer, Harry feels a twist of anxiety in his gut when he Apparates to Luna’s house. 

He’s been off-kilter ever since their solstice gathering, a jumble of loose emotions that has yet to settle back into place. Nervousness. Relief. And not a little embarrassment for not realising sooner. For the past nine days, Harry’s been forcing himself to repeat the word to himself as he looks in the mirror in the morning, or while climbing the steps to his flat.

_Bisexual. Bisexual. Bisexual._

It still feels a bit jarring just thinking it. Harry hasn’t considered telling anyone yet, even Ron and Hermione. He knows they’ll be completely supportive, but he’ll have to muster some Gryffindor courage before he’s ready to say the words aloud. And find a way to dodge their questions about how this epiphany came about without mentioning a certain blond Slytherin.

 _Merlin_ , Ron would take the piss out of him for a hundred years.

Harry peeks into the kitchen and finds it empty, so he straightens his shoulders and heads towards the camp. He reminds himself that the only thing he needs to accomplish today is behaving normally around Draco. In other words, not making a complete arse of himself. That shouldn’t be too hard, right?

After setting his bags and bundles on the table, he finds everyone except Pansy in the tent. Harry’s traitorous eyes go right to Draco, stretched out on the cushions reading _Adrian’s Folly_ with his long legs crossed at the ankles. Harry promptly catches his head on the doorway. 

_Bloody hell._

“Sorry I’m late,” Harry says, trying to pat his hair back into place. “I was chatting with the owner of the bakery about sourdough starters.”

“That’s all right,” Luna says placidly. “We were just talking about what to do today. Pansy’s started writing her book.”

“Well, that’s exciting. Too bad she’ll miss today.”

“Oh, she’s here. She’s writing in my bedroom. I’ll take her some lunch to eat while she works.”

“Better you than me,” Greg grumbles. “I tried to say hello and ask her how it was coming along, and she called me a troll-brained oaf and threw something at me.”

Luna makes a pained sound. “She’s just immersed in her work and doesn’t want to be interrupted. I’m sure she’ll apologise later,” she adds when Greg doesn’t look placated.

“If I’d known that she was going to be the moody, tortured kind of artist, I wouldn’t have encouraged her so much,” Draco says without looking up from the book.

The frown pulling at the corners of his mouth makes Harry suspect that Greg wasn’t the only victim of Pansy’s sharp tongue. Harry silently vows to steer clear of the house today, at least until Pansy’s creative fury is spent.

“It can be a frustrating process, writing,” Luna says sagely. “Just try to be patient with her.”

“So what are we going to do today? The weather’s decent, for now,” Harry says.

“There’ll be rain later,” Luna tells him. “I found a den of fox kits that I suspect are orphaned. I’ve been watching it all week, but I haven’t seen any sign of the parents and the kits are getting hungry. I think Greg and I should try to get them out and bring them here, then I can take them to a rescue organisation I know. If you wouldn’t mind helping me.”

“Course not,” Greg says. “So long as we can have lunch first.”

“Well, Harry, I guess we’ll have to keep ourselves amused for a little while,” Draco says, looking up through his fringe.

Harry swallows hard. “I reckon we’ll manage.”

“Luna, do you think we could ward up your meadow for Quidditch? Maybe we could have a Seekers game or two while everyone else is busy,” Draco says, glancing at Harry for approval.

“I think that would be fine, as long as you don’t go too high above the trees. But do watch out for the nest of Glumbumbles. It’s in a big, rotted oak tree in the southwest corner of the meadow.”

“We’ll set the wards far enough away that we won’t disturb them,” Draco promises. “Believe me, I’d rather not be chased by an angry swarm halfway across Devon today.”

“Well, that’s settled then,” Luna says, clapping her hands. “Shall we have lunch? I’m as hungry as an Augerey chick.”

Since Pansy isn’t there to forbid the subject, Draco and Greg take the opportunity to have a spirited debate about Quidditch strategies, and their moods seem much improved for it. Harry joins in, too, grateful to have a topic of conversation that he can throw himself into without any self-consciousness. Luna is content to offer occasional comments that are, impossibly, both insightful and nonsensical at the same time. If she ever decided to coach a Quidditch team, their opponents would be so hopelessly baffled by her strategies that it would be an absolute rout, Harry thinks.

Immediately after lunch, Luna and Greg depart for the forest with a couple of wicker cages and some thick dragonhide gloves to try to retrieve the kits. Draco and Harry Apparate home to get their brooms. They agreed that the sound of the Floo was likely to bring a wrathful Pansy out of Luna’s room.

“Best not draw the angry badger from its hole,” Harry says when they’re crossing the clearing with their brooms in hand.

“ _Salazar_ , don’t let Pansy hear you say that,” Draco warns. “If there’s one thing I know about women—and I freely admit that I don’t know much—it’s that pointing out that they’re angry _while they’re still angry_ is a terrible idea.”

Harry laughs, thinking of the times when Ron has done that exact thing with Hermione. He glances at Draco as they approach the stream that flows down from the meadow. Has Draco dated anyone since the war? Is he dating anyone now? Harry doesn’t think so. From the way Draco teases Pansy about her parties and social obligations, he gets the impression that Draco doesn’t spend his free time with anyone but them.

Not that Harry _cares_ if Draco is seeing anyone. Just because he finds Draco attractive doesn’t mean that he fancies him, or something ridiculous like that. Harry relaxes a bit more when he thinks of it that way. He can acknowledge that Draco’s a handsome bloke, then file the information away like he does the reports about broom specs his boss gives him at work. Mildly interesting, but hardly earth-shattering, Harry assures himself.

Harry helps Draco ward up the meadow to as close to regulation pitch dimensions as the irregular shape and Glumbumble nests allow. It’s cloudy with just a light breeze, perfect for chasing the Snitch. They face each other in the tall grass to release it, both of them grinning with anticipation.

“Ready?” Draco asks, his arm extended above his head with the Snitch held tightly in his fist. He opens his hand, then counts down the seconds until the chase can begin, all the while holding Harry’s gaze.

Harry grips his broom handle, his legs tensed and ready to launch himself upward. And if his heart is beating a little faster, surely it’s in anticipation of flying against a worthy opponent, and not because of the intensity of Draco’s expression as he counts. Or the way the light shines on his fair hair.

“Two… One… Go!”

They take off in opposite directions, eyes already seeking a glint of gold, and everything but the Snitch is forgotten.

After two games (score: Potter, 1; Malfoy, 1), they find a shady spot at the edge of the meadow. They both stretch out on the grass, leaning back on their elbows to catch their breaths from the frantic chase at the end of their second game. They were side by side, up and down and around the meadow like a runaway roller coaster car, until Draco managed a little burst of speed that put the Snitch within his reach.

“Not bad,” Harry says.

Draco huffs a laugh. “Thank you. Not bad, yourself.”

“Reckon our house teams wouldn’t be too ashamed of us if they saw that,” Harry laughs. “We should have brought water. Think it’s okay to drink from the stream?”

“Go ahead if _you_ want to,” Draco says, wrinkling his nose. “I’ll wait until we get back to the camp.”

Harry’s muscles tell him that getting up is too much trouble right now. He closes his eyes and listens to the buzz of the insects in the grass and the rustle of the trees nearby. It’s amazing how different he feels from the Harry who lies on his sofa in his dreary flat, or breathes in the stale air of his Ministry cubicle. No wonder Luna said his aura looked off. Or drab. Or whatever.

“Too bad we can’t have summer hols anymore,” Harry says. “I could do this every day. Better than filing paperwork, that’s for sure.”

Draco twists to look over at Harry. “If you don’t mind my asking, what on earth possessed you to take a job like that? You don’t seem the type to sit behind a desk all day. No offence.”

“None taken,” Harry replies. “I know it’s not what people expected me to do, but I’m okay with that.”

“I don’t mean that I expected _the great Harry Potter_ to do something more glorious than a low-level Ministry position,” Draco says rolling his eyes. “You just seem more like the _doing_ type. Something physically active. And productive.”

Harry shrugs. He can’t say he loves it. Or that it doesn’t make him feel so fidgety that he’s tempted to run out the door some days. Isn’t that how everyone feels about their job? It’s normal to find some parts of it a bit boring. Or, you know, all of it.

“After I dropped out of the Auror training programme, I was just sitting around at home most of the time,” Harry explains. “All my friends were busy all day with classes or apprenticeships, so I decided I needed to do something, too. It seemed kind of… wrong, I guess, being an adult and not working when everyone else has to. It’s hard to explain,” he sighs.

“So you took the job because you felt guilty about not needing one?”

“Not _guilty_ , exactly. More like—” Harry pauses to find the right words. “—out of sync with my friends.”

 _Abnormal_ was the word that drummed in his head at the time. And if there was one thing that Harry craved after the war it was to just be ordinary, for once. He wanted to be able to point to his bland flat and entry-level job, his predictable and staid social life, and say, _“See? Just a normal bloke! Nothing to see here!”_

Harry didn’t realise that, after a couple of years, this version of a _perfectly normal life_ would leave him feeling about as interesting and vital as an old boot.

Draco’s looking at him thoughtfully. “And Magical Games and Sports was hiring.”

“Yeah, so I applied, just like anyone else would. No special treatment. And you know I like Quidditch, so I thought it would be an interesting place to work.” Harry’s starting to feel uncomfortable with Draco’s perceptive questions. It’s not unlike the way Hermione interrogates him. He decides to turn the tables. “Are you enjoying your apprenticeship?”

“Very much,” Draco replies. “Only one year left, and then I’ll look for a job.”

“Brewing?”

“Research, preferably. I’d like to focus on reformulating existing potions to use more readily-available ingredients or make them simpler to brew. It would allow hospitals to brew more of their own medicines instead of relying on the few Potions Masters with the skill necessary for the more difficult ones.”

“So you’re becoming a Potions Master to put other Potions Masters out of work?” Harry laughs.

“There’ll always be a need for them, don’t worry.” Draco tilts his head back to look at the sky with a smile. “Though I’m sure they’d be touched by your concern for their livelihoods.”

“It’s all well and good for you to say that. You don’t need to work any more than I do,” Harry points out.

Draco’s smile vanishes. “I do, rather. I’ve refused to take any money from my parents.”

“Oh.”

“Too many strings attached.”

“Strings,” Harry repeats, unable to hide his distaste. He can only imagine what kind of _strings_ a man like Lucius Malfoy would use to try to manipulate his son.

“Not what you’re thinking,” Draco says harshly, sitting upright to scowl down at Harry. “Nothing that’s morally or legally questionable, for fuck’s sake. Marriage. To the _right kind of girl—_ you know what that means to people like my parents. And an heir or two to carry on our disgraced name.”

“And that’s not what you want?” Harry asks. What he really wants to know is which of those things Draco objects to most. Marriage? Children? _Girl?_

“No, that’s not what I want. And I’ll happily live off my apprenticeship stipend and a potioneer’s salary if it means I won’t be beholden to my parents.” Draco leans back on his hands with a heavy sigh. “Father and I are barely on speaking terms because of it, but I’m determined to stand my ground. Even if it’s difficult to be in the same room with him anymore.”

“I’m glad,” Harry says, then rushes on when Draco’s eyes narrow. “Not because your dad’s mad at you. I’m glad you found a way to do what you want. The thing you’re passionate about. You should be able to choose what makes you happy.”

Draco gives him another penetrating look. “So should you,” he says after a moment.

Harry winces. He does not want to return to discussing his own life choices, so he stands with a grunt and stretches and twists to loosen his muscles.

“Come on. We can’t leave it at a tie, can we?”

“I suppose we have time for one more round,” Draco says, still looking a bit grim despite his deliberately agreeable tone. “Luna or Greg will come find us if they get tired of waiting.” 

When they’re soaring above the meadow again, Harry notices that the clouds are darker to the southwest and the air feels heavier. He glances at Draco while he circles, trying to interpret his mood from afar by the curve of Draco’s shoulders and the intensity of his flying. Between their conversation just now and Pansy’s testiness, things feel out of sorts in the camp today. Harry tells himself that everything will be back to normal by the time they regather for tea and the vanilla sponge he baked. Surely it will be.

Draco catches the Snitch again, but he doesn’t look nearly as pleased as he did the first time.

* * *

Harry’s sitting on a mossy boulder with his bare feet in the stream when Greg and Draco find him—or rather, stumble upon him as they’re trudging up the trail from the bridge. Greg doesn’t say a word, just squats down and scoops water over his face and neck with his cupped hands. Draco leans against an ivy-covered tree trunk with a sigh.

“Any luck?” he asks Harry.

“Found something ‘melancholy and chartreuse,’” Harry says. “I think.”

“Really?”

“Chartreuse is blue, right?”

“Greenish yellow, more like,” Draco smirks.

“Aw, bollocks,” Harry mutters, making Greg snort a laugh. Harry kicks water at him. “Are you doing any better, you tosser?”

“I found something ‘shaped like a Grindylow arm,’” Greg replies, pulling a twisted bit of tree root from the pouch strung across his chest. “You have to squint a bit, mind you. But I’m sure Luna will let it count.”

“I’m beginning to think that Luna has never actually participated in a scavenger hunt in her life,” Draco says bitterly. “I believe she just wanted to have the camp to herself all day, so she sent us on a merry chase for things that are impossible to find.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Greg says firmly, twisting on the balls of his feet to frown at Draco.

Harry shakes the water off his feet and draws his wand to cast a drying charm on them before reaching for his socks and trainers. “I don’t think she would either, and anyway, she’s not alone. I saw Pansy in the tent with her when I walked by a little while ago. She looked quite settled in for a long chat, if you ask me.”

“That little minx!” Draco cries. “She’s probably trying to wheedle clues out of Luna.”

“It’s a scavenger hunt. How can there be clues?” Greg asks, baffled.

“Maybe all the items are actually riddles, like the password to Ravenclaw Tower,” Harry suggests. “I mean, what the hell are we supposed to make of ‘a knot in the water’ and ‘an empty flower’?”

“Oh, fuck me. I never even thought of that,” Draco moans. “Bloody Ravenclaws.”

“You’re sure she’d notice if we Transfigured stuff?” Greg asks, almost pleadingly.

“Yes!” Harry and Draco answer in unison.

“I suppose we should keep trying for a little while longer, since Luna went to the trouble of making the lists for us. It’s only been—” Draco casts a _Tempus_ Charm. “—a bit over an hour. How long have you been sitting here?”

“Er, maybe twenty minutes?” Harry says sheepishly. “It was hot out in the sun!”

“Another half hour of searching,” Greg proposes. “Then we’ll go back to the camp and tell Luna that we did our level best.”

Draco and Harry agree, and they split up again, lists in hand. Harry wanders downstream, vaguely looking for something “sweet as sun-warmed mallow,” but ends up spending most of the time enjoying the gurgle and sparkle of the stream beside him. He’s sorely tempted to try to fold his parchment into a boat and race it down the hill.

The forest has reached its full, summer lushness, a far cry from the tentative smattering of green that Harry saw on his first walk up this path. His previous experiences with forests (namely, the Forbidden kind and the ones he spent a winter camping in during the last year of the war) didn’t prepare him for how fond he’s become of this little corner of Devon. It’s quiet, yet full of small sounds if he stops and listens; it’s peaceful, yet busy with countless plants and animals living and growing and driven to survive. Harry feels a kind of silent solidarity with them, as a fellow living thing, when he’s here.

Harry gets caught up in his musings on the bridge where the lane crosses the stream and is consequently the last one back to the tent. Luna smiles at him in a consoling way as soon as she sees his abashed expression.

“It’s all right, Harry. I think I made the game too difficult. I wrote down things as I perceive them, when I should have remembered that others may see them differently.”

She’s arranging some tall stalks of purple flowers in a mug that she’s Transfigured into a tall vase. For some reason Harry can’t fathom, Luna left the now grotesquely-distorted picture of a Niffler on the side of the vase.

“Foxgloves,” she tells Harry. “Aren’t they lovely? Greg picked them for me.”

“Found them at the edge of the meadow,” Greg says, his already-ruddy cheeks darkening even further.

“How sweet,” Pansy drawls from the shadiest corner of the tent. Unlike the boys, who are all a bit sweaty and dishevelled from traipsing around, she doesn’t have a hair out of place. “Will it be chocolates next, Greg?”

Greg ignores her and reaches into the fruit bowl wedged next to the phonograph for a green apple. Harry sees Pansy purse her lips and wonders if she’s been writing again. She isn’t usually so cutting, at least not in front of Luna.

“Draco,” she calls, “I was just telling Luna about that banker from Geneva I met on holiday. Do you remember I told you about him?”

“I remember,” Draco says. “He sounded very dull.”

“Well, it’s difficult to get an accurate impression at a noisy party. He sent me a _very_ nice letter this week, asking if he could see me when he’s in London this month. Do you think I ought to?”

“I don’t see why not, if you want to.”

Pansy crosses her arms. “He is very handsome. And rich. And quite taken with me, which shows his exceptional taste. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a promising suitor. I might like to get to know him better.”

“Then do,” Draco says, not bothering to hide his disinterest in the subject. “Your mother will be pleased.”

Pansy huffs in irritation.

Harry senses there must be a subtext to this conversation that he’s missing, but decides that Slytherins will always be unfathomable and puts it out of his head. 

“Now what?” he asks. “It isn’t time for tea and the weather’s too perfect to sit around.”

“Croquet?” Pansy suggests.

“Too hot in the sun,” Draco says, rolling his eyes at Harry, who responds by sticking out his tongue. “Not all of us have been sitting in a tent for the past two hours.”

“We could Apparate someplace and get ice cream,” Harry says. “Do you know a place in one of the nearby villages, Luna? Or in Plymouth or Exeter?”

“I’m afraid not. I can’t say I’m very fond of ice cream myself, at least the kind from shops. The flavours are rather uninspired, don’t you think?”

“What else did we put on that list we made?” Draco asks.

“Oh, yes! We should look at that. It’s in the house.” Luna ducks out of the tent without waiting for a reply.

After a few moments, Pansy tilts her head in Greg’s direction. “The flowers are very sweet. Do you fancy our Luna then, Greg?”

“Sod off, Pansy,” Greg replies in a low rumble. “I just wanted to make it up to her for not doing the scavenger hunt properly.”

“You can tell us. We won’t give you away,” Pansy pushes.

“M’not telling you anything,” Greg says, meeting Pansy’s eyes with surprising determination. “Don’t you think I know you better than that?”

Draco barks a laugh. “He knows you’ll tease him half to death, lord it over him, and make his life miserable in general. Leave him be, Pans.”

“Fine,” she says, then stays silent until Luna returns with the list.

None of their other ideas on the list seem to suit. It’s too late in the day for a long excursion and most of the other things would require preparation days in advance or supplies they don’t have on hand. Pansy throws her hands up in frustration.

“Surely we can think of something to do! We’re not lacking in imagination—well, most of us aren’t. And we’ve established that we want to do something outdoors that we can all do together and won’t end with heat exhaustion. There must be fun activities for hot afternoons besides splashing each other in the river again.”

Harry perks up at the last part. “I think I have an idea. A water fight, with _Aguamenti_ charms.”

Pansy looks ready to shoot down the idea, but changes her mind when Luna claps her hands and Greg looks more enthusiastic than he has all day. Draco merely shrugs and admits it _might_ be refreshing, but the calculating look he throws at Harry betrays him. Harry fully expects to get a jet to the face if they go forward with the plan.

After a spirited debate about the rules and where to stage the battle, it’s agreed that _Aguamenti_ will be the only magic allowed (which disappoints Harry, who learnt some nifty Disillusionment and Shielding charms in his brief stint as a Trainee Auror) and they’ll play in the clearing where there’s less risk of tripping on roots and rocks (at Pansy’s insistence).

“We should have some kind of barricades to duck behind,” Harry says, thinking of the duelling practice at the Auror Academy. “Otherwise we’ll just end up chasing each other around in circles and we’ll only last ten minutes.”

Luna can’t come up with anything besides dragging furniture outside or enlarging plates with _Engorgio_ charms. Harry thinks of other objects at hand, determined to see the idea through now that everyone’s on board. The contents of his half-empty flat don’t answer, but he does hit upon a possibility when he thinks of Grimmauld Place.

“Doors,” he says. “Wooden doors propped up or stuck into the ground. I have a bunch of them, and we can Transfigure or enlarge them if we want some variety.”

“Why in Merlin’s name do you have wooden doors lying around?” Pansy asks.

“There’s a stack of them in the attic of the house I inherited from my godfather,” Harry explains. He acknowledges Luna’s sad hum with a nod. “They must have replaced all the doors at some point and kept the old ones for some reason.”

Since it’s the best thing anyone’s come up with, Harry recruits Greg to come to Grimmauld Place with him to retrieve the doors. Harry Apparates them to the front step and unlocks the door, bracing himself for the unpleasant memories that always surface when he comes here.

Greg peers around the gloomy front hall after Harry closes the door behind them. “I can see why you got a flat. Not exactly a cheerful place, is it?”

“Yeah, well they weren’t exactly cheerful people, the Blacks. I’m pretty sure Sirius’ mum was half-mad and there was so much cursed shit in this house you’d think they were all trying to get themselves killed. Sirius ran away when he was sixteen and never wanted to come back.”

“Where’d he go?” Greg asks, following Harry up the stairs.

“My dad’s parents took him in.”

“Lucky,” Greg mutters. He continues after Harry gives him a questioning look over his shoulder, “Can’t run away to a friend’s house when all their parents are your parents’ friends. You’re stuck with all the fucked-up shit.”

“That bad?” Harry asks gently.

“Living with an angry drunk? Fuck yeah, it was. Just tried to not be seen, as much as I could.”

“Safer if they don’t remember you exist,” Harry agrees. “I know how that is.”

When they reach the door to the attic, Greg is looking at him with surprise and concern. “Your relatives?”

“Yes. They were… pretty rotten people. Not alcoholics, they just hated my guts and worked very hard to make my life as miserable as possible,” Harry explains with a grim laugh. “You have no idea how happy I was to go to Hogwarts.”

“Me, too,” Greg says, his brown eyes full of sympathy. “Come on, let’s get these doors of yours.”

They work quickly in the stifling attic to dust off and shrink the doors, one by one, and stack them in a box that Luna provided. There are nearly twenty of them, some plain, some with ornately carved panels. Harry’s not sure why they were kept, but he’s glad to have them now.

Back at Luna’s, they embed the doors into the ground around the clearing, vertically or horizontally, alone or in pairs. Luna’s final touch is to charm each one a different pastel colour, creating a rather surreal landscape that’s half art installation, half deconstructed sweet shop.

They gather in front of the tent to go over the rules one more time. Harry does a double take when he sees that Draco has changed into a grey t-shirt that looks so worn and soft that Harry wants to touch it. Greg’s almost bouncing in anticipation, while Luna twirls her wand between her fingers in a deceptively casual way. Harry’s seen her duel and knows that anyone who underestimates her is liable to get soaked.

After scattering around the clearing, Pansy counts down from ten, then the battle begins. Just as Harry suspected, Draco targets him first, sneaking up from behind and shooting water at the back of Harry’s head from around the edge of a yellow door. Harry tears after him, but is cut off by Greg diving headfirst onto the grass to dodge a jet from Pansy’s wand. He changes course to avoid getting caught between them and crouches behind a horizontal door to catch his breath and wait for Draco to show himself.

He doesn’t wait long. A high-pitched shriek comes from Harry’s left, then a well-soaked Draco comes tearing out from behind a blue door with Luna in pursuit.

“That was bloody _cold_ ,” he barks. “Foul! Foul!”

“Sorry, Draco!” Luna calls back. “My _Aguamentis_ always come out icy like that. I’m really not sure why.”

Draco looks so bedraggled and furious that Harry gives away his position by laughing. Luna aims her wand in his direction, but Harry ducks behind the door and the stream of water goes over his head. He waits until he hears another shout further away, then dashes out, hoping that Luna has turned her attention elsewhere. 

Harry discovers that his duelling experience and sprinting ability lend themselves well to a water fight. He avoids most of the attempts to hit him and gets a few good shots in at everyone but Luna, whose frigid jets of water have the others fleeing at the sight of her. Most memorably, Greg and Draco blast Pansy at the same time, making her swear and howl for vengeance.

After a half hour of mayhem, Luna calls for a cease-fire by sending up purple sparks. They regroup by the firepit, dripping and panting. The game seems to have relieved some of the tension between the Slytherins, and Harry silently congratulates himself for coming up with the idea. His own face hurts from smiling.

Draco rakes his fingers through his wet hair to push it back from his face, momentarily turning him back into a taller version of his early-Hogwarts self. Harry finds himself staring _again_ , this time at the lines of Draco’s collarbones through his wet shirt and the drops of water rolling down his neck and pale arms.

 _Sweet, fucking Merlin_ , Harry wants to suck those droplets off his skin. He closes his eyes and feels a shudder roll through him.

When Harry opens his eyes, Draco is watching him with a pained expression, holding his left arm behind his back.

 _Fuck._

Harry tries to smile at him to show Draco that he misunderstood, but he’s already turning away. Harry hears him cast a Drying Charm over himself as he strides towards the house, calling to Luna that he’s going to start the tea.

“I wasn’t looking at your Mark,” Harry says when he corners Draco in the kitchen a few minutes later.

Draco keeps his back to Harry. “It’s understandable if you were.”

“I was just shivering from the cold water,” Harry lies.

“It’s fine,” Draco shrugs, obviously lying, too.

* * *

“Hi, Luna,” Harry calls through the open door of the kitchen. He sets the picnic hamper on the top step and tries to summon his courage for the awkward conversation he’s about to have. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Of course. Come sit with me while I finish tying up these herbs.”

Harry takes a chair and watches her bundle stems of oregano and rosemary with cotton twine. He’s watched Molly do the same thing, then hang them to dry in a dim corner of the Burrow kitchen. Luna tilts her head with an inquisitive hum and Harry knows that it’s time to just get this over with.

“Ron and Hermione asked me to have lunch with them today, but I told them I already had plans with you,” Harry begins.

“Oh,” Luna says. “Did you want to go?”

“No, no!” Harry assures her. “It isn’t that. I explained that I’ve been coming over here almost every weekend this summer. Which I hadn’t told them before, because I was trying to respect Greg and Pansy and Draco’s privacy. I didn’t mention them last night, either. But now…”

Luna waits patiently for him to continue, but Harry can see a tiny furrow of concern between her eyes. 

“They got the idea in their heads that I’m seeing you. In a romantic way. And I told them it isn’t like that at all,” Harry says in a rush, “but I’m not sure they believed me. They thought I was just being shy about it. I’m really sorry.”

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry about,” Luna smiles. “If they ask me, I’ll tell them that we’re just friends.”

“I don’t think they would ask you directly. I just wanted to let you know in case it seemed like they were acting differently around you. I really did try to convince them.”

Luna winds the extra twine around her fingers to make a loose coil. “Why do you think they didn’t believe you?”

Harry winces. He knows exactly why Hermione and Ron thought he was being disingenuous. They saw him get flustered when he told them about coming here all summer. He’s pretty sure he even blushed—which he doesn’t think he’s done in years—because he was, in fact, thinking of someone. Someone who isn’t Luna.

 _Oh, hell._ He can feel the blood rising to his cheeks again now.

Thankfully, Luna doesn’t seem to expect an answer. She’s already turned her attention to levitating the herb bundles toward the ceiling, where she deftly catches the loops she tied in the twine on nails in the crossbeams.

“All done,” she says cheerfully. “Shall we join the others outside?”

Harry retrieves the hamper on the way. He hears music as soon as they step around the back of the house, a slow waltz carried on the breeze. Across the clearing, Draco and Pansy are dancing in front of the tent. Their shoulders and arms are held with the precision of people who’ve had lessons from an exacting teacher, even while their feet catch a bit on the uneven stubble of the grass. Harry’s eyes linger on Draco’s hand where it rests lightly on Pansy’s waist.

The song ends just as he and Luna arrive at the tent. After saying hello to Harry, Draco ducks inside to change the record, opting for a more lively piece of music. When he emerges, he bows at the waist before Luna and holds out his hand.

“Would you care to dance?” he asks.

“Oh, I would!” Luna replies with a wide smile.

He guides her into the same position as he used with Pansy, but then launches them into a mad gallop across the clearing so abruptly that Luna lets out a shriek of surprise. Harry and Pansy watch as they weave around the doors that are still embedded in the ground. It’s impossible not to share their delight.

Harry grins and shakes his head at Draco’s sudden changes of direction and Luna’s whoops of laughter. When he glances at Pansy to see if she’s enjoying the scene as much as he is, he’s surprised to see that her lips are pressed together with some suppressed emotion that he can’t decipher.

“What’s the matter?” he asks her.

Pansy schools her expression back into the dispassionate one she usually wears. “Nothing. I was just thinking… it’s nice to see them both happy and laughing. After everything.”

“I feel that way, too, when I look at my friends sometimes,” Harry says quietly. He reaches over and squeezes her wrist. If it were Luna or Hermione or Ginny, he’d wrap an arm around her shoulder, but he isn’t sure Pansy would welcome that kind of affection from him yet.

Pansy doesn’t acknowledge the brief touch and keeps her eyes fixed on the dancing pair, her mouth twisting again. It makes Harry question if she was being honest about what she was thinking. But before he can consider it further, he spots Greg rounding the house with something in his arms.

“What do you have there?” Harry asks when Greg is within earshot.

“A swing,” he calls back, shifting his arms around what Harry can now see are ropes and a thick, wooden plank. “What the hell are those two doing?”

“It’s called dancing, Greg,” Pansy says, with a laugh that’s tinged with bitterness. “Well, Luna’s style of dancing, anyway.”

“Where are you going to hang that?” Harry asks as he relieves Greg of some of the rope.

“There’s a good branch on that oak tree behind the tent. Wanna help me after lunch?”

“Sure,” Harry says absently.

His attention has been recaptured by Draco and Luna, who are barrelling towards them in a breakneck tango. Luna throws herself into Pansy’s arms, breathless and sagging from the exertion. Pansy wraps her arms around Luna carefully, as if she’s not sure she’s supposed to. 

Draco sinks cross-legged into the grass and pushes his fringe off his flushed face. Harry’s heart gives a painful little flip to see him so open and happy. It’s sometimes hard to believe he’s the same person Harry knew at Hogwarts, full of petty cruelty and arrogance. Or even the distrustful and reserved one who wouldn’t even speak to Harry in April.

Draco’s still smiling when Pansy pulls away from Luna and looks down at him bemusedly.

“Madam Peabody would faint from shock, Draco.”

“Madam Peabody was a bitter old bat who pinched children while giving them dancing lessons,” Draco replies drily. “It’s a miracle we still enjoy dancing at all. Not that I have the occasion to do it very often.”

“Be grateful. You’re saving yourself from many tedious evenings at parties and balls. You’re the only tolerable dance partner I get to have.”

“What about Henri, the Swiss banker?” Luna asks.

“Oh,” Pansy says, flustered. “I suppose he’s quite tolerable, too. A very lovely dancer, in fact. Maybe even better than Draco.”

Luna pats her on the shoulder. “Let’s have lunch, shall we?”

They move to the table, the picnic hamper floating in front of them under Harry’s Locomotion Charm. He watches Pansy thread her arm through Draco’s as they walk and wonders what Draco thinks of her having a suitor. He doesn’t seem the least bit interested, which seems to frustrate Pansy. Harry hopes she isn’t trying to stir up trouble in their little group by bragging about her admirer. And needling Greg about Luna.

Harry isn’t certain that’s what she’s doing. He just knows he doesn’t want anything to disturb the warm, peaceful waters of their idyllic summer.

“It doesn’t seem right that you should cook your own birthday luncheon,” Luna says.

“I don’t mind,” Harry laughs. “You know how much I like to do it. And anyway, I picked things I really like, so it’s still a treat for me.”

“What’s on the menu today, then?” Greg asks, eyeing the picnic hamper with interest.

“Two kinds of quiche and green salad with blackberry vinaigrette. And some fresh rolls from the bakery, of course.”

“You must be their best customer,” Draco observes. “Or are they giving you a famous-person discount?”

Harry throws a napkin at him, which he catches easily. “No discount, you prat. I just love what they make there. And the owner, Clara, is really nice. I must have asked her a hundred questions this summer about how to make things at home.”

“I have to admit, I’m rather impressed with what you make already,” Pansy says. “I can barely manage toast. I think our house-elves would rather I stay out of the kitchen entirely, for everyone’s safety.”

“I’m sure you could learn how to cook, if you wanted to,” Harry replies as he lays the food out. “It just takes practice and a patient teacher.”

“Who taught you?” Pansy asks.

“My aunt, when I was younger,” Harry says, catching Greg’s eye. Greg nods slightly to show he remembers their conversation in Grimmauld and understands that this isn’t a happy memory for Harry. “Mostly from Molly Weasley, though. She got fed up with me and Ron popping round to the Burrow for dinner instead of cooking in our flat, so she gave us both lessons. Basic things, like soups and roasts and some baking.”

“You don’t cook much at home now, you said,” Luna observes.

“Well, cooking for one isn’t as much fun,” Harry says. “After I got my own flat a couple of years ago, I mostly went back to cheese toasties and takeaway. I still have Ron and Hermione over sometimes, but they’re so busy now we don’t do that often.”

“I’m surprised you’re still not living with them,” Pansy says. “The _inseparable trio_.”

Harry laughs, a bit ruefully. “We tried it after Hermione finished her last year at Hogwarts, but… third wheel and all that. I decided to give them some privacy and found my own place a few months after Hermione moved in with us. I do miss it sometimes.”

“Ugh, I don’t think I’d want to live with a couple,” Draco says. “It’s bad enough when my neighbours forget to use Silencing Charms. I can’t imagine having to look them in the eye every day, too.”

“Oh, it was still awkward just _knowing_ , even if they did use the charms,” Harry says vehemently. 

The sight of his grinning friends, lovebites still fresh, emerging from their bedroom in the mornings was an intimacy he really didn’t want to share with two people who were like siblings to him. He felt even more embarrassed by it than they did, and moving out seemed the best thing to do.

While they eat under the arbour, plans for the afternoon are discussed. Luna suggests a walk, since it’s Harry’s day and he requested exploring when they made their list of summer activities back in May.

“Honestly, I’m still a bit tired from last weekend,” Harry says.

“I think we walked halfway across Devon,” Greg agrees. “Had to soak my feet the next morning.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t find the fairy colony,” Luna says sadly. “I don’t think the evening was warm enough for them to gather.”

“It’s okay, Luna,” Harry assures her. “It was a really fun night. The old forest was beautiful, even without the fairies.”

Harry had been wary of being in the woods at night, especially after hearing Luna’s stories of Wild Hunts of otherworldly, black-garbed riders and Yeth hounds with glowing eyes. But the place turned out to be more whimsical than spooky, full of twisted oak trees and hillsides covered with mossy boulders. It was a truly magical place.

Traipsing around in the dark over the rough terrain—still wet from rain earlier in the day—had left him sore and exhausted, though, and Harry would be happy to stay close to the camp today.

“We could go flying again,” Draco suggests. “Pansy’s not much of a flyer, but I’ll take her up if she’d like. As long as she promises not to scream in my ear.”

“I only scream when you go into a dive without warning me first,” Pansy says with a glare. “I’m perfectly happy to take a few laps at a _reasonable_ pace. Maybe Greg can take me this time.”

“Sure,” Greg shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind going up for a bit.”

“You know I’m always ready for flying,” Harry says, hoping he can coax Draco into another Seekers game today.

The feeling seems to be mutual. Draco cocks an eyebrow in a silent challenge and Harry nods, accepting it. The silent exchange sends a surge of happiness through his chest.

Harry eats his lunch with a contentment that goes beyond the food and the others’ enjoyment of it. He’ll have another birthday celebration tomorrow at the Burrow and drinks with all his Hogwarts friends on Tuesday, his actual birthday. And although he looks forward to those gatherings, he can’t imagine enjoying them more than he does this one, surrounded by new friends and the heady scents of honeysuckle and freshly-mown grass.

While he eats, he sneaks glances at Draco, who’s engrossed in a conversation with Luna about Bowtruckles, of all things. He’s already finished his lunch and pushed his chair back from the table to cross his legs, looking both elegant and relaxed. Sometimes, when he’s agreeing with Luna about habitat preservation or expressing exasperation about a Ministry regulation, he leans forward to jab the table with his forefinger.

 _Christ, he really is attractive,_ Harry thinks helplessly.

Harry busies himself with repacking the hamper so he isn’t tempted to stare, but he doesn’t get far before Greg silently bats his hands away and takes over, muttering about letting someone else do the work today. His only options now are striking up a conversation with Pansy, who was unusually quiet during the meal, or staring out at the clearing. He opts for the latter.

“So, flying first, then tea?” Luna asks, apparently having concluded the Bowtruckle discussion. “Draco brought a birthday cake for tea.”

Draco barks a laugh at Harry’s gobsmacked expression. “Don’t look at me that way, Harry. I didn’t bake it myself, so you needn’t look so appalled.”

“I didn’t think… You bought me a cake?” Harry asks, his voice gone a bit squeaky. He quickly changes his expression, lest Draco misinterpret his surprise. “ _Thank you._ That’s really nice of you.”

“Well, you’re not the only one who can appreciate a good bakery. If I’d known you were so chummy with the owner, though, I’d have asked her to choose the flavour. I wasn’t sure what you like. I must have stood there staring at the choices like a pillock for at least twenty minutes trying to decide.”

“I like all the flavours,” Harry says faintly, almost overcome imagining Draco worrying over what kind of cake he’d like.

The rest of the afternoon is spent flying and trying out the new swing, though a corner of Harry’s mind stays occupied with Draco. He tries not to look too much, tries not to read too much into the fact that Draco went to his favourite bakery to get him a birthday cake. But he can’t seem to pull his thoughts away, and it’s like having the hem of his cloak trapped under someone’s foot.

When the cake is placed in front of him, candles lit, he tells everyone he can’t think of anything to wish for. That he has everything he needs and more. But just before he bends down to blow out the candles, he sees Draco smiling at him warmly.

Maybe there is something that Harry wants, after all.


	5. Yellow Iris (for passion)

As soon as he arrives in the clearing the following Saturday afternoon, it’s apparent to Harry that the gathering isn’t going to go as planned.

The weather is perfect for camping, with clear skies and heat that’s uncomfortable now, but promises mild temperatures overnight. The problem, Harry realises after he rounds the corner of the house with his rucksack, is a matter of simple arithmetic.

“There are only three tents,” he says when he reaches the garden, where Luna is picking tomatoes. “And five of us.”

“That’s all I could find on short notice,” Luna shrugs. “I’ll go in with Pansy and two of you boys can share.”

“Why can’t someone sleep in the big tent?” Harry asks, gesturing across the clearing.

Luna just looks up at him with a patient expression. “Because that one’s not for sleeping in, of course. The small tents are much cozier.”

“I highly recommend you choose me, Harry,” Draco says, striding up behind him. “I know from seven years’ experience that Greg snores louder than the engine of the Hogwarts Express.”

When Harry turns, he sees that Draco isn’t any happier about the arrangement than Harry is, despite the joke. He was the most difficult to persuade when Luna brought up the idea two days ago, after hearing the ideal weather forecast over the wireless. She finally resorted to asking Harry to convince him that sleeping in a tent only a few dozen yards from her house was perfectly safe and comfortable.

Harry wasn’t able to do that, despite haranguing Draco through the Floo about Cushioning and Warming Charms for twenty minutes. What did the trick was invoking Luna’s disappointment if he didn’t agree. It was a dirty trick—Draco told him so—but it was worth it to see her excitement when Harry told her he’d succeeded.

He very much regrets his accomplishment now. And agreeing to include the idea on their list in the first place. _Sweet Merlin_ , he’s going to have to spend the night in a small tent with the bloke he suspects he’s starting to… have feelings for. Feelings that he’s almost certain aren’t reciprocated in the slightest.

“That’s fine,” Harry says, because it’s the only thing he can say, really. “Where are Pansy and Greg?”

“Getting some dry wood for the fire,” Luna says. “Do you think we should ask Pansy to make some more Pimm’s?”

“No,” Harry says, at the same time that Draco says, “ _Salazar_ , yes.”

Harry tries to give him a stern look to stop him from saying more, but Draco won’t be deterred.

“If I have to go through this ordeal, I may as well be tipsy, at the very least.”

Fortunately, Luna’s not fazed by his lack of enthusiasm. “You’re going to enjoy it, Draco, you’ll see. It’s so peaceful falling asleep with the sounds of nature all around you. Then in the morning, you get to experience the dewy grass on your bare feet and the sun coming up from behind the hills across the valley.”

Before Draco can contradict her, Harry points out Pansy and Greg emerging from the woods, the latter pushing the wheelbarrow piled high with dead branches. As they get closer, their voices drift up the hill. They seem to be having a fabulous row, and Harry’s heart sinks at the prospect of a ruined evening.

Harry looks at Draco just as _Fuck off, Pansy_ echoes through the clearing. Draco bites his lower lip and looks at Luna, then at Harry with concern. The evening is not off to a good start at all, and it’s not yet five o’clock.

Luna leaves her basket of tomatoes to stand at the garden gate, and the three of them watch Greg and Pansy climb the hill to the clearing. Harry hopes he’s not going to have to disarm one or both of them to keep it from coming to hexes.

Thankfully, both of them spot the rest of the group gathered by the garden and immediately stop arguing. Greg dumps the branches by the firepit, while Pansy veers away towards the tent. Luna goes after her.

“You really shouldn’t let her get a rise out of you,” Draco tells Greg when he walks by with the empty wheelbarrow.

“Yeah, right,” Greg glowers in the direction of the tent. “You know Pansy. She just doesn’t know when to let up.”

“Luna will straighten her out,” Draco says. “She’s had her knickers in a twist about something these past few weeks, but fuck me if I know what it is.”

“Maybe she’s been writing again. Good thing Luna’s the one sharing a tent with her tonight,” Harry observes. If there’s one thing he’s learnt about Pansy this summer, it’s that no one but Luna is spared when she’s in a dangerous mood. Maybe the Pimm’s would be a good idea after all.

“You’re in with him?” Greg asks, jerking his head at Draco. “He _says_ I snore and keep him awake, the bloody drama queen.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Why would I lie about that? And yes, Harry and I will share a tent. It would be a tight fit for _you_ to squeeze in with anyone else, anyway, you big lummox.”

Greg makes a scornful huff and pushes the wheelbarrow towards the garden shed. Draco just sighs and retrieves the basket of tomatoes from the garden.

“This is going to be a long night if you’re all sniping at each other,” Harry tells him as they walk side by side to the house. “And, honestly, I don’t fancy getting caught in the crossfire. I don’t want to upset Luna, either.”

Draco stops and rounds on Harry. “I realise you’ve been friends with her longer than we have, but _do not_ think for a minute that any of us care less about her than you do. Greg and Pansy wouldn’t have let her hear that if they’d known she was crouched down in the garden. You needn’t get all _righteous Gryffindor_ about it.”

He pivots and continues walking toward the house, picking up his pace to make it clear that he doesn’t want Harry to follow.

_Well, fuck._

Harry runs his hand through his hair and vows to keep his mouth shut on the subject for the rest of the night. He certainly doesn’t want to make things worse, and Luna is by far the best person to mediate this dispute, anyway.

Harry thinks of seeking out Greg for company but, judging from the violent clanging sounds, he’s taking out his frustration with Pansy on some metal pails. Harry decides it would be best to wait by the firepit instead.

After a few minutes of cutting the dead branches into shorter pieces with his wand, Harry sees Luna emerge from the tent and walk purposefully towards the shed. Greg comes out as soon as she calls him and wraps her in an enormous hug. Harry regrets even thinking that he or Draco or Pansy needed any reminder to take care of Luna’s feelings.

Harry relaxes a bit when they regather for dinner under the arbour. Everyone makes an effort to be cheerful and steer the conversation towards topics that won’t start another row. Instead of Pimm’s, Draco Floos back to his flat for a few bottles of wine, which they’re now drinking out of mugs with their meal. Draco doesn’t even lament the lack of proper wine glasses, which Harry finds strangely endearing.

They spend the rest of the evening around the fire. Luna stretches out on the bench that she’s sharing with Pansy and puts her head in Pansy’s lap to watch the stars. Greg keeps the fire fed while he listens to the others. Meanwhile, Draco decides to compensate by talking too much. Harry tries to help him keep the conversations going, but his attempts at a back-and-forth with Draco seem to fall flat more than they succeed.

It’s obvious that no one’s really enjoying themselves, although it’s difficult to tell with Luna. She’s as serene as ever, humming softly or pointing out constellations when silence falls over the group. It’s barely eleven o’clock when she suggests they turn in for the night. Harry sags with relief until he remembers where he’ll be sleeping.

Harry crawls into one of the tents while Draco’s in the house using the loo. It’s just wide enough for two people. Harry reminds himself that he slept that close to Hermione and Ron plenty of times when they were on the run. It wasn’t a big deal then; in fact, it was comforting to hear their soft breathing and have them nearby when he woke in the middle of the night. Harry pulls his sleeping bag and pillow from his rucksack and lays them out on the floor of the tent, upon which he cast as strong a Cushioning Charm as he could manage. Then he hastily changes into some joggers and a t-shirt before Draco returns.

He’s just climbing into his sleeping bag when Draco ducks through the tent flaps with a muttered, “Circe’s green tits, this is tiny.”

He’s wearing pale blue pyjamas with white pinstripes. Harry feels the now-familiar warm tide of attraction and fondness flooding his chest. He quickly lies down with his back to Draco.

“All right, I’m ready,” Draco says after arranging his bedding. “You can put out the light now.”

Harry finds his wand and rolls onto his back to cast a _Finite_ at the glowing ball of light hovering near the peak of the tent. Before it goes out, he catches a glimpse of Draco rolled up in a grey duvet up to his chin. He’s lying on his back with his eyes closed, his pale hair and face almost glowing in the magical light. The image stays in Harry’s head when he’s curled back on his side in his sleeping bag.

He hears the others zipping the flaps of their tents closed and the soft voices of the girls as they settle in. After that, there’s nothing to hear but the disjointed chorus of frogs and crickets, with the occasional shrill bark of a fox in the distance. Draco shifts around and sighs repeatedly behind Harry’s back.

“Are you uncomfortable?” Harry finally asks.

“No,” Draco grunts, turning again. “A Cushioning Charm just doesn’t feel the same as a mattress, that’s all. Am I keeping you awake?”

“No, I’m not sleepy yet, it’s fine.”

 _Merlin_ , it’s strange hearing Draco’s voice so low and close to his ear. If he rolled over, they’d almost be face to face in the dark. He tries not to think about it, but then Draco sighs so loudly it’s almost a groan.

“I don’t care what Luna says, nature is _really fucking annoying_ and it can sod right off,” Draco says, just after a long string of fox barks.

Harry can’t help laughing.

Pansy’s voice calls sharply across the corner of the clearing. “If you two are going to engage in a bit of pillow talk, please put up a Silencing Charm! Other people are trying to sleep, you know.”

“So sorry,” Draco replies sarcastically. He casts the charm and the noise outside the tent abruptly ceases. “Well, that’s one problem solved.”

Harry finds the silence a little smothering, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s pretty sure he’s not going to be able to sleep for a long time anyway. Neither is Draco, judging by the rustling of the duvet.

“What were she and Greg fighting about? I’m not going to butt in, I promise,” Harry adds when Draco doesn’t answer immediately.

“She still has it in her head that he might fancy Luna,” Draco says, speaking a low voice despite the Silencing Charm. “He keeps telling her he doesn’t—and I believe him. I’ve never seen Greg moon over anyone. But Pansy’s got herself all worked up about it and she won’t stop interrogating him.”

“What’s it to her if he does?” Harry demands, feeling the need to defend Greg, who has turned out to be as kind as Luna promised. “Would that be such a terrible thing? Unless she wants Greg herself.”

Draco makes a disgusted noise. “Gods above, no! The three of us are like siblings to each other. Maybe she’s just itching for a _romantic subplot_ for our Saturday gatherings.”

“She has her Swiss bloke, if she wants to think about romance,” Harry points out. “She keeps bringing him up at every opportunity, like she’s going to run off and elope with him any day now.”

“She’s not going to do that,” Draco says firmly, “and she’s about as likely to let her parents marry her off to some rich wizard as I am to let my parents find a witch for me. Or find one for myself, for that matter.”

Harry lies very still in his sleeping bag while he tries to interpret those last words. Does Draco mean he doesn’t _want_ a girlfriend? Harry feels like he can hardly breathe, caught between mild panic and hope, and he forces out a cough to remind his lungs to work.

“I’m sure you’re horrified by the idea of someone wanting to marry me,” Draco says tersely. “Don’t worry, I’m well aware that I’m not likely to find someone willing to overlook my… past.”

“What? That’s not what I was thinking!” Harry cries, rolling over and propping himself up on his elbow.

“If you say so.”

“Stop doing that!” Harry almost shouts in exasperation. “Stop assuming that I’m thinking the worst possible thing about you! I’m not!”

“Fine,” Draco says, then adds in a quieter voice, “I apologise for jumping to the wrong conclusion.”

Hearing him speak reminds Harry how close they are, and he lies back on his pillow with his head turned away. He desperately wants to tell Draco just how wrong he is, and that his reactions are, in fact, the opposite of anger or repulsion. That he’s been thinking of Draco all week and he’s beginning to worry about becoming a bit fixated. Enamoured. Painfully smitten.

Admitting those feelings right now is a terrible idea, Harry knows. He needs to fix this present situation rather than thinking about far-fetched daydreams.

“Look,” Harry begins, “you’re going to have to believe me when I say that I’ve let go of the past, if we’re going to be friends.”

Draco is silent for a few moments before he answers sadly, “I’m not sure if that’s possible, Harry, after everything that happened. It’s hard to imagine.”

“It’s not! It’s not hard to imagine,” Harry insists, almost choking out the words. He takes a deep breath to steady his voice. “I’d really like to be friends, Draco. I mean it.”

Draco hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t speak anymore after that.

Harry lays in the dark, eyes burning, until Draco’s breathing settles into the regular rhythm of sleep. Then he reaches for his wand to end the Silencing Charm. At least he can have the frogs and crickets to keep him company.

And maybe distract him from the wrenching disappointment he’s feeling.

In the morning—Harry almost forgot how early the sun rises in the summer, thanks to the heavy curtains in his bedroom—the five of them emerge from the tents, stiff and groggy. Luna skips away through the dew-soaked grass to put on the kettle while the others look each other up and down blearily.

Greg is the only one who seems to have slept well. He stretches dramatically, then follows Luna towards the house. Pansy looks unsteady on her feet, wrapped in a blanket with only her eyes and nose peeking out. Draco keeps running his hands through his hair to smooth it down, scowling all the while, but stops when Pansy rolls her eyes at him.

“You survived,” she points out. “And you probably got more sleep than I did.”

“What’s the matter? Does Luna talk in her sleep?” Draco asks.

“No, even worse. She likes to _cuddle_.”

Pansy’s voice seems to break a little as she says it, but by time Harry turns to look, she’s already going back into the tent. Draco just shrugs when Harry turns to see his reaction, then grimly announces that he’s going to get dressed in the tent.

Harry’s left alone in the cool morning air. He’s unable to enjoy it, though. It feels like all the beauty around them is wasted on a bunch of ungrateful wretches.

Breakfast around the crowded kitchen table is eaten in near silence. Even Luna’s spirits begin to falter for the first time. Harry offers to stay and help her clean up, but is secretly relieved when she tells him to go home and get some rest. He settles for giving her a long hug before Apparating home.

Sleep is elusive, even in his own bed, Harry finds. The words _I’m not sure if that’s possible_ keep echoing in his head, until he finally gets up and turns on the wireless in the sitting room to drown them out.

* * *

Harry is relieved that no one begs off their next excursion, a hike up to a remote stone circle in Dartmoor National Park, a week after their failed attempt at camping. Such is the way of old friends, Harry thinks, to fall right back into their usual routine as soon as everyone’s had a chance to cool down. Lunch at Luna’s is a brisk meal—which leaves little time for bickering—so that there’ll be enough time for the long walk.

They set off from an Apparition Point hidden behind the remains of a stone cottage at the edge of a Muggle village The first part of the walk is easy, down an unpaved lane that threads between low farm buildings with muddy tractors parked beside them and barking dogs in the doorways. Once they get past the enclosed pastures, the moors rise steeply in front of them, already beginning to fade from green to brown as the summer winds to a close.

Luna and Greg take the lead, guiding them toward their destination with the help of a tattered Ordnance Survey map. They follow a brook until it’s nothing but a mere trickle in the hillside. After that, they rely on frequent _Point Me_ spells since the boulders and thick gorse make it impossible to travel in a straight line.

Harry’s proud that he’s keeping up with the rest of the group better than he did on their first hike. Spending every Saturday outside instead of on his sofa has given him more energy than he’s had since he left Auror training. It’s a cloudy day, pleasantly warm but not too hot for a long walk. The high moors are vast and wild, but there’s something distracting Harry from the scenery.

Draco keeps glancing at him while he talks to Pansy. He doesn’t seem upset. If Harry had to describe Draco’s expression, he would call it _regretful_. Maybe even _wistful_. Either way, he has no way of knowing what Draco’s thinking about and no opportunity to ask right now.

Their conversation in the tent bothered Harry so much that he finally talked to Luna about it a few days ago through the green flames of the Floo. She assured him, quite earnestly, that Draco did want to be friends with him and that he shouldn’t give up trying. Some people, she said in her typically enigmatic way, deny that they’re hungry when they don’t think they’ll get the meal they want, and then lash out when they’re hungrier than ever.

Harry’s not sure what she meant and he thinks that someone who serves radish and Camembert sandwiches probably shouldn’t use food metaphors.

He does plan to take her advice about persisting with Draco, though. He may not be the most patient bloke, but he knows he has a stubborn streak a mile wide. He won’t let Draco push him away, even if it means settling for friendship instead of something more.

It takes over an hour to reach the desolate hilltop where the stone circle lies. Harry doesn’t realise they’ve arrived until the others start examining the slabs of stone sunk into the peat. They’re spaced out in a wide ring, their exposed sides level with the ground around them.

“Wait, this is it?” he asks, confused. “I thought it would be like Stonehenge.”

“These stones are recumbent. People haven’t tried to prop them back upright again, as they have in other places, to become a _tourist destination_ ,” Draco explains, turning to Harry. “To be fair, more recently discovered sites like these are left as they’re found.”

“So they used to be standing up?” Harry asks, happy to have Draco’s attention. He’s windblown and bright-eyed with eagerness to share his knowledge. Harry can’t look away.

“Yes, but over the millennia, they either fell over or were deliberately pushed down by superstitious people. Sometimes the stone was cut up for buildings or walls. Or when the circle wasn’t used anymore—for seasonal rituals or powerful, collaborative magic, we can only guess—they were tipped over and left to sink into the soft ground by the descendants of the people who erected them.”

“But why go to the trouble? They’re massive.”

“Who knows?” Luna says, strolling over to join the conversation. “Ley lines shift, clan borders change. It’s been thousands of years and the people who used the stones didn’t leave written records. We can still use our imaginations to envision what it must have looked like when they were standing. I’m sure they were magnificent.”

Draco sighs, “I hoped to come here at night, possibly for the summer solstice, but it’s too far to walk in the dark. We’d likely end up hopelessly lost on the moor.”

“Luna!”

The alarm in Greg’s voice causes everyone to turn toward him immediately. He raises his arm to point in the direction they came.

At first, Harry is confused by what he sees. The rolling moorland that stretched out around them a little while ago seems to end a short distance away now. He realises that what he assumed were distant clouds are actually a heavy bank of fog, drifting noticeably closer even as they watch.

“Oh, dear!” Luna says, gripping Harry’s bicep. “We didn’t see it coming in behind us as we walked.”

Pansy comes over and takes Luna’s hand. “Should we wait it out, do you think, or try to go back?”

Luna watches the approaching fog for a few moments, looking more concerned than Harry’s seen her in a long time. If _she’s_ worried, he knows the situation must truly be serious.

“I think we should try to go back,” she says at last. “It could be dark before it blows away again and we didn’t plan to be out that long.”

“We could take the risk and Apparate,” Harry suggests.

“We’re in the middle of a Muggle national park,” Pansy snaps. “There are almost certainly others walking around and the sound of five people Disapparating would carry for a mile up here. I know _you_ wouldn’t get in trouble for doing it, but the Ministry doesn’t look upon some of us so favourably.”

“All right, all right,” Harry says. “Should we just get moving then?”

Luna finds southeast with a _Point Me_ spell and leads them away from the stone circle. They’ve barely walked for five minutes when the fog envelops them, damp and surprisingly cold. They march on grimly, keeping silent so that Luna can focus on steering them in the right direction.

Harry looks over his shoulder to see how far they’ve come, but it’s impossible to tell. When he glances upward, the sight of a shape in fog stops him in his tracks. He gasps softly.

_Prongs._

It’s a stag, silhouetted against the pale fog. Harry watches, breathlessly, as it walks along the ridge, it’s curved antlers swaying slightly with each step.

Harry can’t help himself. He needs to get a closer look, needs to hurry before the deer disappears into the fog. Without a thought for his companions, he begins to jog back up the hill. The cold mist dots the lenses of his glasses. He draws his wand and casts drying and _Impervious_ Charms on them as he stumbles over tussocks of grass.

There are voices calling from behind him, but Harry doesn’t want to miss this chance. When he’s halfway up the hill, the stag, startled by either the movement or the noise, raises its head for a moment then trots over the hill and out of sight.

 _No, no, no,_ Harry thinks.

He tries to go faster, but can only manage a clumsy run over the uneven ground. When he reaches the end of the ridge, he stops to catch his breath and look around. Nothing but fog all around him and above him, a dome of grey trapping him on the brown-green moor.

He lost it. He lost the stag.

Harry wraps his arms around himself and shivers. It’s so quiet that his own breathing sounds loud in his ears—even the birds have gone silent—and he remains there, lost in thought, until he hears his name called.

“Harry, you absolute bellend! You idiot!” Draco stomps towards him, looking murderous, Greg close behind. “What the fuck are you doing? Why did you run off like that?”

“I saw…” Harry begins, then swallows with difficulty. “I saw a stag.”

Draco runs a hand over his eyes and growls in frustration. “You ran off like a man possessed, through the fog, because you saw a fucking _deer_?”

“A stag,” Harry repeats. “I wanted to see it because—”

“Because it’s your Patronus,” Draco finishes for him.

“Because it was my dad’s Animagus form! I’ve never seen one before. I just... wanted to get a closer look.”

Draco’s anger seems to dissolve at Harry’s pleading tone. Greg steps forward and rests a heavy hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“You scared us, mate,” he says gently.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just left,” Harry says, meeting Draco’s eyes. He pushes down his disappointment about the stag. “Let’s go find Luna and Pansy.”

They carefully make their way back down the ridge. The fog seems thicker than ever and Harry can see tiny droplets of water in Greg’s dark hair. He thinks of the stag that’s somewhere nearby, its rough coat dripping as it picks its way through the grass and gorse. He still wishes he could have caught up with it. Could have let himself imagine, just for a moment…

“There’s the brook,” Greg says, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. “Where are the girls?”

“Did we pass them?” Draco looks around, then cups his hands around his mouth and calls, “Luna! Pansy!”

There’s no answer.

“Could you send your Patronus?” Draco asks Harry. “Tell her we’re waiting at the head of the brook.”

Harry draws his wand and tries to focus on the memories he usually calls on to perform the charm, but his mind keeps replaying the image of the stag in the fog. Then other memories follow: a shaggy, black dog… the brotherhood shattered by a terrible betrayal… the last, desperate words, shouted through a dark house.

The incantation catches in Harry’s throat.

“I don’t think I can right now,” he chokes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Greg reassures him. “They probably went on ahead. We can catch up with them.”

They follow the brook downward as quickly as they can, expecting to see two familiar shapes in the fog at any moment. But instead of finding their friends or the stone walls enclosing the sheep pastures, they hear the sound of rushing water nearby.

It’s a river. A full-fledged river, and one they definitely didn’t see on their way up to the stone circle.

“Oh, fuck, it was the wrong brook,” Draco moans. “Now what do we do?”

“We can follow it back down to the village. I saw it on the map,” Greg says.

“Are you sure this is the same river?” Harry asks.

“Yeah, it’s the only one near where we were walking.”

“Let’s go then. Why the hell didn’t we think of using a _Point Me_ at the top of the hill?” Draco fumes, turning left to walk along the riverbank.

Greg grabs Draco by the arm. “Wait, we have to cross to the other side.”

“What? Why?” Draco demands.

“There was a big, boggy patch on this side that’s labelled “danger area” on the map. We’d have to go around it and we’d probably get lost again.”

“Well I don’t really fancy a swim right now, so let’s go on this side,” Draco says, turning away. “What a fiasco this day has turned into.”

Greg catches his arm again before he can take a single step, and this time he keeps hold of it.

“Listen to me for once, you cocky bastard! We can’t go that way and I’m not getting split up a second time today.” Greg gives Draco a menacing shake. “I know you like to think you’re right all the time, but you’re not. We’re going to wade across and go down the other side.”

Harry and Draco are taken aback. It’s unlike Greg to lay a hand on anyone these days, and it’s the first time that Harry’s seen him take charge of a situation.

Draco nods, wide-eyed, and Greg releases him with a satisfied grunt.

They don’t need to wade across the river, it turns out. There’s a place a short way downstream where there are boulders spaced just closely enough to step across to the other side. From there, it’s easy to follow the rushing water down to where the pastures begin, then back through the village to the Apparition Point.

Damp and footsore, they wait for Luna and Pansy. Greg paces back and forth along the half-fallen side of the cottage, looking off into the fog for any sign of movement, while Draco and Harry rest against a stone wall. The only time Draco speaks is to demand that Harry teach him and Greg how to cast the Patronus Charm before they ever set foot on the damn moor again.

Harry can’t remember the last time he was so ashamed of himself.

After waiting a half hour, they decide to Apparate back to Luna’s house in hopes of finding the girls there. Xeno flings open the kitchen door when he hears them arrive.

“There you are! Luna told me you got split up in the fog. Pansy’s had a bit of a mishap, it seems.”

“What happened?” Draco cries, stepping forward.

“Bitten by an adder just after they lost you,” Xeno says. He reaches out to squeeze Draco’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, my boy, they went to Saint Mungo’s for some antivenom. She’s probably right as rain already. Come in and use the Floo.”

He herds the three of them into the kitchen and holds out the jar of Floo Powder. Draco steps into the flames first, followed by Greg, then Harry.

After getting the room number from the Welcome Witch at the reception desk, they take the lift up to the ward. They garner more than a few stares from the staff and the other visitors as they hurry down the corridor. Harry hears his name spoken in the hum of voices, no doubt commenting about his companions and their damp hair and clothes. He truly couldn’t care less right now.

They hear Luna’s distinctive laugh as they approach the room, followed by the low murmur of Pansy’s voice. Draco breathes an audible sigh of relief and rushes through the door without knocking.

He stops abruptly just inside the door, causing Greg to almost run into him. Greg, too, stands frozen in place. Harry steps up behind them and leans to the side so that he can see into the room.

They’re _kissing_.

Pansy is tucked under a sheet, propped up on pillows with her bandaged hand tangled in Luna’s hair. Luna’s perched on the edge of the bed curled forward to kiss Pansy soundly on the lips. She pulls away when Draco makes a garbled noise.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Luna exclaims. “Dad told you what happened? I sent him a Patronus as soon as we got here.”

“Yes. An adder. Pans…” Draco stutters, clearly still in shock.

“Lucky for me, Luna knew just what to do,” Pansy says, a blush spreading on her cheeks. She looks up at Luna brightly. “She cast a Stasis Charm on the bite and kept her head all the way back to the Apparition Point. I was hysterical, I’m ashamed to say.”

“That’s completely understandable, love,” Luna says, taking her hand. “Where did you run off to, Harry? We were so scared we’d lost you in the fog.”

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” Harry says, cringing with embarrassment. “I’ll explain later.”

“Speaking of explaining,” Draco says, gesturing between the two girls. “Anything you two would like to share with us?”

“I think it’s rather obvious,” Pansy sniffs, turning even pinker. “Didn’t you notice I’ve been gone on her for ages?”

“No,” Draco, Greg, and Harry say vehemently, in unison.

“Well, Luna did,” Pansy says, “even though she never let on.”

“I’ve been trying to _show_ you all summer, silly,” Luna replies, tucking Pansy’s hair behind her ears. “Didn’t I tell you that keen observation was a necessary skill for a writer?”

Harry squirms at the intimacy of the scene, and he’s not the only one. Greg starts to back toward the door, pulling Draco with him.

“We’ll just… uh… give you some privacy,” Greg mumbles.

“They’re sending me home in a couple of hours, but you should feel free to send me flowers anyway,” Pansy quips, making Luna laugh.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Harry calls with a wave goodbye, just as Draco escapes from Greg’s grip to give Pansy a quick kiss on the forehead and whispers the same thing.

The three walk back to the lift, waiting until they’re inside to speak.

“That explains why Pansy was trying to find out if you fancy Luna,” Draco says to Greg, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”

“What about that Henri fellow she wouldn’t stop talking about?” Harry asks, then understands as soon as he thinks about it. “Oh. Yeah, I get it. Why not just tell Luna how she feels instead of starting rows and snapping at us?”

But he knows the answer to that question, too. Just the thought of telling Draco something similar is rather terrifying. Harry’s stomach twists unpleasantly, imagining what it would feel like to hear Draco reject him with cutting words and cold eyes.

“She could have ruined everything, taking it out on us,” Greg says sadly. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard for people to just keep their ruddy mouths shut.”

Draco, Harry notices, flinches at Greg’s words. When the lift doors open, he strides briskly towards the Floo, leaving Harry and Greg to trail after him.

By unspoken agreement they go back to Luna’s house to give Xeno an update about Pansy’s condition. He offers to make them some tea, but all three of them are eager to get home and rest after the stressful past few hours.

After Greg disappears through the Floo, Draco follows Harry out into the misty front garden. The fog seems to be lifting and the air feels warmer now, too.

“Harry,” Draco says quietly, “I’d like to apologise for shouting at you earlier. I was afraid you were chasing something dangerous. Or you were going to break your leg in the peat, running like that.”

Harry hardly knows what to say. “Oh. It’s okay. It’s not the first time someone’s yelled at me for doing something impulsive. I kind of deserved it.”

“No, you didn’t. I was just... relieved to find you. _Very_ relieved.” Draco looks around the garden for a moment, then clears his throat. “I would also like to apologise for saying I wasn’t sure we could be friends. I… want you to know I didn’t mean it. Luna keeps telling me that I need to stop believing that no one can forgive me for the things I did. And for the person I used to be at school. Maybe she’ll get it through my thick head someday,” he laughs ruefully.

Harry feels a pang in his chest as he looks at Draco, still damp and rumpled from their misadventure on the moor. He wants to tell Draco that Luna is right, and that he thinks Draco is worthy of friendship and anything else that would bring him happiness. Since he can’t find the words, he steps forward and pulls Draco into a tight hug.

“Thank you for finding me in the fog,” he says, holding Draco close. 

Draco wraps his arms around Harry and hums softly in reply. _Merlin_ , it feels wonderful to have Draco’s lithe body against his, solid and reassuring after the gamut of emotions Harry’s run today. He resists the urge to bury his face in the smooth curve of Draco’s neck, or to let his lips brush the sensitive patch of skin behind Draco’s ear.

Instead, Harry doesn’t resist when Draco pulls back, but he lets his fingertips run down Draco’s arms as he releases him. He sees Draco’s eyes widen for a moment at the gesture.

“Okay,” Harry says, taking a step backwards, a bit startled by his own boldness. “I’ll see you next weekend, I guess.”

“Yes,” Draco murmurs. “Next weekend.”

Harry Apparates away, carrying with him the image of Draco standing in the brightening garden, his grey eyes intense and inscrutable.

* * *

Harry’s lying on his sofa with a Quidditch magazine when the Floo bursts into life with green flames.

“Harry!” Draco’s voice calls urgently. “Are you home?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Harry answers, moving quickly to kneel in front of the fireplace. “Is everything okay?”

“There are fairies in the woods at the Manor tonight! I saw the lights when I was walking on the grounds just now. I tried to reach Luna, but Xeno says she’s gone out with Pansy. Would you like to see them?”

Draco seems so excited that Harry doesn’t even consider saying no. “Yeah, just let me get my trainers on.”

“Better wear boots. It’s bound to be a bit muddy in the woods from all the rain we’ve had. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll open the Floo wards for you.” Draco hesitates for a few seconds. “You don’t mind coming here, do you? I understand if you’d rather not. I’m in the kitchens and we can go straight outside, so you won’t have to go in any other part of the house.”

“It’s fine,” Harry assures him, as he sits back down on the sofa to pull on his wellies. “Okay, I’m ready to come through.”

Draco tells him the address and steps back so that Harry can exit the Floo on the other side. Harry only stumbles a little, thankfully. Not that he would mind terribly if Draco had to catch him, though crashing into a table was probably more likely.

The kitchen is a ghostly place, dim and shadowy. Everything is covered with white dust cloths, but it’s obvious that it was once a place that could accommodate a small army of house-elves preparing anything from a family meal to a banquet. Draco’s standing a few feet away from the massive fireplace, the tip of his wand glowing with the faintest of _Lumos_ Charms. He looks rather ghostly, too.

“Hi,” Harry says.

“Come on, before they scatter again.”

Draco leads the way outside, through an empty kitchen garden and down a gravel path that leads around the house. In the light of both their wands, the house looms over them, grey stone and empty windows. Harry tries not to look at it as they pass.

They walk through multiple gardens, some with silent fountains or elegant statuary, now skirted with dead leaves. In one garden, an overgrown bank of yellow irises catches Harry’s eye. They look like a golden wave in the wand light.

“It must have been lovely here,” Harry says softly.

Draco glances at him. “It was… once. It broke Mother’s heart to leave it.”

He doesn’t speak again as they cross the lawn where the grass is as tall as their boots. It’s the first time they’ve been alone together since the hike up to the stone circle. 

Something had shifted between them on that day, there was no denying it.

Five days ago, they spent another rainy Saturday in the tent playing games and listening to records on Draco’s old phonograph. Pansy and Luna were all smiles, of course, while they shared cushions and mugs of tea. Greg had settled back into his usual unruffled self.

But there was a distinct tension between Harry and Draco. It was in the way they caught each others’ eyes and quickly looked away all day; it was in the way they tried not to show how closely they were listening when the other one spoke; and it was in the way they were careful not to brush against each other in the crowded tent or let their hands touch when passing a plate or a record sleeve.

It had been a long afternoon. And at the end of it, Harry was no closer to determining if the attraction was mutual than when he had stepped into the tent.

It doesn’t feel at all awkward now, either because there’s no one watching them or because they’re not confined in a small space. Draco navigates them without any hesitation to the exact place at the edge of the lawn where a narrow path begins. Harry wonders what it would be like to know a place so well—a childhood home full of old haunts and favourite spots.

They slip through the dark wall of the treeline and into the forest. Harry keeps his eyes on Draco’s back and almost forgets how little he enjoys being in the woods at night… until Draco tells him to cast a _Nox_.

“The light might scare them off,” Draco explains in a whisper.

“It’s pitch black in here!” Harry hisses back. “I’m going to break my neck on a root or something.”

Draco takes a shaky breath and interlaces his cool fingers with Harry’s.

“Here,” he says, standing so close now that Harry catches a whiff of his aftershave or cologne. “Now you won’t fall.”

Harry squeezes his fingers in reply. There’s something wrong with his throat that’s making it impossible to speak.

Even at a slower pace, it isn’t long before they see the faint glow that turns the tree trunks ahead into silhouettes. Draco pauses at the edge of a small clearing and tugs on Harry’s hand until they’re side by side.

The clearing is abuzz with fairies, some darting through the air like hummingbirds and others content to flutter about in graceful arcs and swoops. Each fairy emits only a gentle glow, but dozens together are enough to light up the soft grass below them and the trees above. It’s utterly mesmerising.

Harry squeezes Draco’s hand again in delight when a cluster of fairies flies apart with a high ringing sound that’s unmistakably laughter. Are they gossiping, he wonders? Flirting? Luna could probably tell him if she were here, but Harry’s content to just enjoy the moment. He understands now why she was so eager to find the colony a few weeks ago. It’s an unforgettable sight.

Draco leans close. Harry can feel the warmth of him as he brings his mouth an inch from Harry’s ear.

“What do you think?”

Draco doesn’t pull away after he breathes the words. Pivoting to face him, Harry reaches out his free hand and places it, so carefully, on Draco’s hip, gently pulling him around until they’re chest to chest. Their cheeks brush lightly against each other.

“It’s wonderful,” Harry whispers back.

He feels Draco tremble slightly through the hand that rises to brush his bicep before settling around the back of Harry’s neck. It feels so warm now, just as warm as Harry feels all over. They breathe roughly in each others' ears for a few heartbeats.

Then, as if he’s forcing himself to leap off a cliff into the water, Draco finds Harry’s lips and kisses him hard.

Harry instinctively wraps his arm around Draco’s waist, both to keep his balance and to keep them pressed together. He tilts his head and opens his mouth slightly, allowing Draco to kiss him deeply, and it’s as if his entire body _ignites_. It roars like a wildfire through him, starting where warm fingers slide against Harry’s scalp, then burning across lips and tongue, and down through his belly to his groin. 

Draco must feel it, too. He pulls back with a soft gasp, then walks Harry backwards a couple of stumbling steps until his back hits the broad trunk of a tree. Harry doesn’t even have time to open his eyes before Draco’s mouth is back on his.

After that, Harry forgets that anything exists in the world besides their two bodies, eager to be as close as possible. His hands can’t seem to decide whether to grip handfuls of Draco’s shirt or pull him closer by the hips. Draco pushes his leg between Harry’s thighs and his tongue deeper into Harry’s mouth in quick succession. Harry clutches at him even tighter because he’s pretty fucking sure his knees are about to buckle.

 _Oh, god,_ Harry didn’t even know kissing could be like this—reckless and heady. He tries to give as good as he gets, but Draco keeps finding new ways to get the upper hand; every time Harry thinks he’s about to take control, he finds himself overcome again. He never thought that being kissed and handled so assertively would be just the thing to make him melt.

Draco Malfoy has him pinned up against a tree, barely letting him get a breath between kisses, _and Harry loves it._

“Harry, Harry.” Draco moves on to Harry’s neck. “Can’t believe… you… Fuck,” he murmurs between tiny, biting kisses.

Harry can only gasp, finally able to fill his lungs. His lips feel swollen and he can feel his heart thudding in his chest. As Draco begins to suck on the skin just below Harry’s jaw, he squeezes his eyes closed more tightly.

It takes him a moment to notice that his vision is doing something strange, making it seem brighter, and Harry is confused by this new reaction by his body. He’s definitely becoming _aroused_ , but he’s not about to… even pressed up against Draco as he is, which is bloody fantastic…

Harry opens his eyes and blinks rapidly. Hovering around them in a hazy cloud of light are several dozen fairies.

His cry of surprise makes Draco pull back to look at him. He turns his head, following Harry’s gaze, and sees the fairies watching them avidly.

“You little perverts!” Draco exclaims.

He doesn’t shout it, but it’s loud enough to send the fairies scattering with jingling giggles. They retreat to the far side of the clearing and then there’s another wave of ringing, as if they’re recounting the story among themselves.

Harry leans forward to bury his smile in the curve of Draco’s neck. “Forgot we had an audience.”

“Yes, well… let’s not tell Luna that fairies are shameless voyeurs. I’d rather the story didn’t make its way into the next Scamander book about magical creatures.” Draco wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders.

They stay like that in the soft, humid night air for a few minutes. Harry runs his hand lightly up and down Draco’s back, happy to be close to him in this peaceful way now. The fairies drift away from the clearing and it’s dark again when Draco releases him. Harry can’t see his expression, so he draws his wand to cast a _Lumos_.

He looks a bit dazed, but he’s smiling softly, Harry is relieved to see.

“Shall we walk back?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies. He already misses touching Draco and he wishes he still had the excuse of darkness to reach for Draco’s hand.

The walk back to the gardens seems shorter. Crickets hum around them, and Harry is delighted to spot glow worms shining in the tall grass. He catches Draco’s sleeve to stop him halfway back to the house. They extinguish their wands and count the tiny, green lights around them.

“Is this where you go flying?” Harry asks.

“Yes, here and in some of the other meadows beyond the woods. And there are some old roads that run straight for a half mile or more, when I’m in the mood to go full tilt.”

Harry can’t help notice the sadness in Draco’s voice. This is a beautiful, but lonely place.

“Do Greg or Pansy ever come with you?”

“Not often. We’re usually at Luna’s when we get together now. Pansy thinks empty houses are creepy, even from a distance.” Draco laughs. “I think she’s using mine as the inspiration for some gothic romance she’s planning to write.”

“It is… a bit unnerving,” Harry says, trying to be tactful, yet honest. He shudders, as if he can feel the Manor’s ominous presence behind him in the dark. “But the grounds around it are nice, I think.”

“Oh, _do_ you think?” Draco asks, amused. “You’ve hardly seen them, and only in the dark at that.”

“Well I wouldn’t mind seeing them during the daytime, too,” Harry says boldly. “If I was invited.”

“And what would you do if you, Harry Potter, were invited to Malfoy Manor?”

Harry can tell Draco is smiling, so he takes a deep breath and moves close enough to wrap his arm around Draco’s waist. “I’d bring my broom. And maybe a picnic lunch for two. And I’d try not to look at your creepy house while I was here.”

“I might be amenable to that. It sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

Draco draws back and casts another _Lumos_. He looks more serious now as he studies Harry.

“You really want to do this? With me of all people?”

“Well, yes. I thought that was obvious after the, er, kissing,” Harry says. He pushes on, despite the momentary awkwardness of saying that aloud. “I want to spend more time with you and get to know each other better. I’ve wanted that for a few weeks now.”

“I didn’t even know that you’re gay,” Draco huffs. “And then I saw you _looking_ at me—no, Harry, you weren’t exactly subtle about it—and I wasn’t sure what you wanted, exactly.”

“I’m bi,” Harry says matter-of-factly, as if it’s his fiftieth time saying it instead of the first. “But I’ve never dated a bloke before. Have you?”

“Mmm, not really,” Draco shrugs. “Dating a boy would have been unthinkable at school, given the expectations of my parents, and I’ve been focused on my apprenticeship since then. That’s not to say I haven’t found someone now and then who was, shall we say, capable of being discreet. But not dating.”

“Oh,” Harry says, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I haven’t dated since school either. Haven’t met someone I wanted to date. Until now.” He smiles sheepishly. “I wasn’t that obvious, was I?”

“About as obvious as a mountain troll in a girls’ bathroom,” Draco laughs again. “Don’t worry. Being easy to read is part of your charm. Among other things.”

Harry grins. “Are you charmed?”

“Oh, completely, I’m afraid,” Draco sighs with feigned regret. “I tried not to be when you first came crashing back into my life. But you were just so good-natured about our summer plans and spending time with me and Greg and Pansy. I didn’t expect that. And I didn’t expect you to be genuinely kind to us, either.”

“Did you think I was unkind?” Harry asks. “Before this summer, I mean?”

“Maybe not unkind. Just… self-righteous. And a little belligerent, though to be fair, we did our best to provoke you at school. You’re not like that at all now, which makes the fact that I’ve let my emotions get the better of me when I was uncomfortable or upset even more embarrassing. I’m really quite ashamed of how I behaved on the moor, speaking to you and Greg as I did.”

“I’m the one who ran off into the fog like a lunatic.” Harry pulls Draco into his arms again. “We’re neither one of us perfect. I’m just happy you want to give this a go with me. I honestly couldn’t tell at all if you were interested.”

“I was trying very hard not to be interested. I convinced myself that you wouldn’t want to be with me, even if you did fancy me a little. I’m still not sure what you’ve found to like,” Draco says, turning his head away to look across the lawn.

“Lots of things,” Harry murmurs, reaching up to cup Draco’s cheek.

He gently turns Draco’s face towards his and kisses him. It’s more tender and exploratory than urgent this time, and Harry savours every moment of it. He lets his fingers linger in the hair on the back of Draco’s neck, presses his other hand into the small of Draco’s back, marvelling yet again that they’re actually doing this.

 _After everything that happened,_ Draco said in the tent, and Harry smiles against his lips thinking about that. When he set off from the Burrow on that April day, feeling ready for an adventure, he never imagined where that river and the ensuing months would take him.

“What are you smiling about?” Draco asks between kisses.

“Everything,” Harry says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite their name, glow worms in Britain are actually a beetle in the same taxonomic order as fireflies. Unlike their cousins in other parts of the world, they don’t flash and only the wingless females glow. Their greenish light attracts males flying overhead. [[source](https://www.wildlifetrusts.org/where_to_see_glow_worms)]


	6. Epilogue: Ox-Eye Daisy (for hope)

“If you keep whittling at that stick, there’s going to be nothing left soon,” Pansy tells Greg.

Greg flings the remainder of what was a green piece of oak as thick as his thumb into the fire. “S’better than watching you lot be all lovey-dovey.”

“We are not _lovey-dovey_ ,” Draco says, offended. He straightens his back beneath Harry’s arm, which is wrapped loosely around his waist as they sit side-by-side, feet extended towards the fire. “Pansy and Luna are the ones who can’t keep their hands off each other.”

Pansy smirks at Draco and pointedly dips her head to nibble on Luna’s earlobe, making her giggle.

It’s true that they’re a very affectionate couple, though Harry doubts that Greg really objects to seeing it. He and Draco agree that they’ve never seen Pansy so happy. Her tongue hasn’t lost its sharpness and her moods when she’s writing are as mercurial as ever, but there’s a deeper self-assurance below the surface now, especially when she describes herself as _Luna’s girlfriend_ or _an aspiring novelist_. Harry can’t remember the last time she referred to herself in a depreciating way, and he knows that being with Luna is a big part of seeing herself as something more than a socialite.

 _“I told them she’s my friend, my lover, and my muse,”_ Pansy told them proudly, recounting the evening that she announced her new relationship to her parents. The declaration earned her a lapful of Luna and a dozen kisses planted all over her face.

Harry doesn’t mind that Draco is still hesitant about being affectionate around other people, even his closest friends. He lets his thumb slide up and down Draco’s waist as he watches the fire and feels his lips curling into a secret smile. Draco more than makes up for his reserve when they’re alone.

The new romances aren’t the only changes lately.

“Are you nervous for Monday?” Greg asks Harry.

“Nervous about sleeping through my alarm, mostly,” Harry laughs. “But if being a baker means waking up at four o’clock in the morning, I guess I’ll have to get used to it. Sleeping until seven is going to seem like a lie-in from now on. Mostly I’m excited. And grateful that Clara was willing to take on someone with no job experience.”

“Well she certainly couldn’t ask for someone with more enthusiasm,” Draco observes. “I think you would have started the next day if you didn’t need to give notice at Magical Games and Sports.”

“I wouldn’t do that to them,” Harry says. “Even though it was boring sometimes, it wasn’t a terrible place to work until I figured out what I wanted to do. Wanted to _try_ , that is.”

“I’m sure you’ll be an excellent baker, Harry,” Luna says warmly. “Everything you’ve made for us has been delicious. And Greg is trying something new, too. I’m very proud of both of you.”

Greg waves a hand at her in a gruff acknowledgement. Luna convinced him to spend time on his woodworking skills this winter when there isn’t much outdoor work to be done, in the hopes that he can make garden benches and sheds to sell. She knows how much satisfaction he got from building small things for the camp and for his mother.

Luna extends her hands towards the flames with a happy sigh. The white petals of her long necklace of daisies shine brightly against her dark jumper in the firelight. They’re some of the last flowers left in the meadow now, but she told Harry she was determined to find something to wear for the last weekend of the summer.

“I can’t believe autumn starts on Friday. I think we accomplished quite a lot this summer, don’t you?” she asks.

Harry looks around the clearing. The old doors, still wearing their pastel charms, loom around the clearing like strange monuments to that hot afternoon. The tent is barely visible, nearly beyond the reach of the firelight. He can almost hear the drip of the rain and Pansy’s voice reading of romance and adventure. And behind him stands the arbour, the honeysuckle putting out its last blossoms of the summer, where Harry first broke the ice with Draco with a picnic hamper of sandwiches and cake.

“We never did name the camp,” Harry reminds the others.

“I don’t think we’ll ever agree on a name,” Pansy says. “We’ll just keep calling out ridiculous ideas again, like we did last time, until we’re giggling like lunatics. We didn’t fly kites like Greg wanted to, either.”

“We’ll make sure to reserve a fine, breezy autumn day for that,” Luna promises.

“There’s another thing we mentioned that day that Draco said would never happen,” Pansy says. She pauses dramatically, making sure she has his full attention. “ _Summer romance._ ”

Draco shakes his head while the rest of them laugh. “It certainly didn’t seem possible at the time.”

He shyly reaches out and squeezes Harry’s leg just above the knee. The small gesture makes Harry desperately want to drag him behind one of the old doors and snog the hell out of him.

“Now we just need to find someone for Greg,” Pansy teases. “What do you say to a bit of romance?”

Greg meets her eyes resolutely. “I don’t want a girlfriend, actually.”

Pansy looks stunned. Harry loses his grip around Draco’s waist as he suddenly leans forward to look past the girls at Greg.

“Oh. A boyfriend, then?” Draco asks faintly.

Greg shakes his head. “Neither. I don’t think I’m a romance kind of bloke. I just like having friends, you know?”

Luna untangles herself from Pansy’s arms and moves over to sit next to Greg and take one of his hands in hers. “Thank you for telling us. You’re a wonderful friend to all of us.”

“But maybe you’ll meet someone someday,” Pansy begins.

“I’ve already met lots of people, Pans. At school and since then. No one’s ever made me feel like _that._ Not even a little bit.” Greg shrugs, then ducks his head. “Might not turn down a shag, if someone offered. But I’m not gonna go and fall in love with anyone, I’m pretty sure.”

“You might have said something when Pansy was teasing you about Luna,” Draco observes.

“She was being a bitch and I didn’t feel like telling anyone then.”

Harry snorts. He knows Greg isn’t angry about it anymore. He and Draco like to take the piss out of Pansy by reminding her how she behaved when she was lovelorn and pining. Draco does an impressive impersonation that earns him either sarcastic applause or a Stinging Hex to the arse, depending on Pansy’s mood.

Romance is definitely not a dignified affair, Harry thinks, remembering how flustered he got looking at Draco sometimes. Still does, actually.

“All right then, we’ll spare you any attempts at matchmaking, Greg, and go fly kites instead,” Pansy says, reaching over to tug Luna back beside her. “We never played croquet, either. Or had any kind of performance, other than Draco singing for us.”

Harry pulls Draco tighter against his side and smiles at the memory of that night. He hasn’t told Draco yet about the epiphany he had on the summer solstice.

“I’m not sure I’d be of much use for that,” he tells Pansy. “Can I be in charge of props or something?”

“We’ll find a small role for you somewhere, Harry, don’t worry. I think it will have to wait until next year, sadly, since we’re going to have to close the camp for the winter in a few weeks. There’s no room for that sort of thing indoors, unless you’d be willing to come to my house and put up with my parents nosing around. Which I most certainly am not willing to do, just to be clear.”

“We could build a bigger tent,” Greg suggests. “It would be all right for winter with more weatherproofing and heating charms.”

“We’d still be going back and forth to the house for the kitchen and the bathroom,” Pansy says. “Which is fine in warm weather, but I’d like to be somewhere snug and just stay there when it’s wet and freezing out.”

Luna laughs. “I almost wish Dad and I had built a bigger house.”

“Oh,” Harry says, startled by a sudden idea. “We could use my house.”

“Your flat?” Pansy asks.

“No, my godfather’s house. It’s enormous and empty. Well, nearly empty because I Vanished most of the furniture a couple of years ago.” Harry laughs at Draco’s pained expression. “It was in terrible shape, trust me. And ugly, too.”

“You really wouldn’t mind, Harry?” Luna asks. “Ginny told me it’s a sad place. She didn’t like staying there at all.”

“Well that’s just it,” Harry says, feeling his excitement mount. “It’s a blank slate. We can paint it, build a stage in the parlour, put up a tent in the library, whatever. And there are, like, six bedrooms besides, if anyone wants a studio or a workshop or a potions lab.”

“And a full-size kitchen,” Draco points out.

“Yeah,” Harry says, grinning even wider. He thinks of all the baking he could do with that kind of space, not to mention the cheery meals that could be shared around the long, battered table. There are so many ghosts in that old house, but the place where the Order gathered holds the most poignant memories for Harry. He relishes the idea of hosting a new group of friends there.

Harry plants a quick kiss on Draco’s cheek to thank him for the reminder. In return, he gets a look that’s half stern, half amused.

“It does sound better than squeezing into my kitchen and sitting room for another winter,” Luna says. “The Fanged Geraniums get rather tetchy when there’s too much noise.”

Pansy sighs in resignation. “I supposed we’ll have to contend with an invasion of Gryffindors while we’re there.”

“Not an _invasion_ ,” Harry scoffs. “Ron and Hermione usually go visit her parents on Saturdays. Neville’s almost always travelling for his Herbology apprenticeship. Dean and Seamus live in Dublin and only come to London every month or two. You’ll be safe, don’t worry. Ron might come around out of curiosity.”

“He still thinks you’re a bit barmy, hanging around with all of us?” Draco asks. He turns to the rest of the group. “Weasley actually thought Harry was playing a joke on him when Harry told him that we’re seeing each other.”

Harry laughs. “I think it was more of a case of not wanting to believe it. But he’s convinced now. And Hermione wasn’t surprised that there was _someone_. She noticed I was cagey about all the time I spent here.”

He hopes his best friends will make the effort to get to know Draco, though he knows it will be tense at first. Draco’s already talked about the things he needs to say if he’s to make a fresh start with them. Harry has every confidence that they’ll find Draco as changed as he does and that they’ll discover things to like about him, too.

 _“I’ve been hiding away from the world too much,”_ Draco said to Harry when they discussed it. _“Not that I haven’t given a great deal of thought to my actions and the beliefs I was taught by my parents. Luna was easy to approach because I sensed that she has a very forgiving heart, but I’ve been… hesitant to reach out to many other people. I’m afraid it’s too late now.”_

 _“It’s not too late, I promise,”_ Harry assured him, then offered to help Draco in any way he could.

 _“I know you saviour-types always need someone to save, but this is something I need to do on my own,”_ Draco replied tersely, then made up for the sharp words by pushing Harry down on his sofa and climbing on top of him.

“Harry?” Luna says, interrupting his thoughts.

“I’m sorry Luna, what was that?”

“I said I hope that Ginny can drop by sometimes, when she’s not doing her off-season training. I’d like her to get to know Pansy. Greg and Draco said it’s all right with them. Would you mind if she joins us, if we’re at your house?”

“No, of course not!” Harry tells her. “You know Ginny and I are still good friends.”

Even though he assents to Luna’s request, he doesn’t particularly relish the idea of adding new people to their group now that the tensions of the summer have been resolved. He doesn’t want anything to upset the balance again. 

He exchanges a glance with Draco and Greg and sees that they share his reluctance. But as usual, no one can say no to Luna.

Then again, she wasn’t wrong about inviting Harry to join their summer plans, was she? He should probably trust her instincts. And trust his friends—both new and old—to be civil and find common ground.

“So we all agree to give Harry’s house a try?” Pansy asks.

The plan is approved by a unanimous vote: Grimmauld Place is to be their winter headquarters, with the understanding that they’ll still try to get outdoors as much as possible. Harry heartily agrees with this last point. Now that he’s had a dose of fresh air and the hills and woods of the country, he doesn’t think he could go very long without them.

“Six bedrooms, you said? Maybe I will claim one for a writing studio,” Pansy muses.

“Wait till you see it,” Greg warns her. “It’s as gloomy as a tomb in there.”

“Ooo, maybe there are Doxies living there again!” Luna exclaims. “I heard there was quite an infestation in the draperies.”

Draco turns to Harry with an incredulous look.

“It’s just a bit dusty and neglected!” Harry says in Grimmauld’s defence. “It just needs to be… _revived_. A bit of work and light and laughter to brighten it up, and it will be a different house, I promise.”

“That’s usually all it takes,” Luna says pointedly. “Doesn’t it, Harry?”

He opens his mouth to agree, then stops. His mind skims over the long afternoons of their summer spent gardening and building and walking together.

“Yeah,” Harry says. He rests his forehead on Draco’s shoulder, smiling in wonder. “That’s all it takes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The places in the story were inspired by real ones in Dartmoor National Park, including the River Dart, Buckland Beacon, the Sittaford stone circle, Wistman’s Wood, and Blackadon Nature Reserve. Check out [this three-minute video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Hj5ugyl0ws) to see the stunning landscapes of Dartmoor.
> 
> The wildflowers in the chapter titles are all native to Devon. Their meanings were culled from various websites, and I attempted to use the most common meaning, when possible.
> 
> More about the legend of the Holly and Oak Kings can be found [here](https://www.learnreligions.com/holly-king-and-the-oak-king-2562991).
> 
> Thank you for reading! Visit me on [Tumblr](https://xanthippe74.tumblr.com/)
> 
> * * *
> 
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> 
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